


The Last Face You'll Ever See

by Temeritous



Category: Fallout 4
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Gen, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Mentions of Unrequited Feelings, Misunderstandings, Prosopagnosia, Vignettes, that's face blindness for everyone who doesn't know Greek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-04
Updated: 2020-12-19
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:15:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 22
Words: 20,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26270977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Temeritous/pseuds/Temeritous
Summary: Nate came out of cryo with more than just the emotional damage.
Comments: 28
Kudos: 63





	1. An Inauspicious Beginning

**Author's Note:**

> This work is not intended to be representative of every person's experience with face blindness. I did my research, but artistic license applies. If you want to correct me on something I'll listen.
> 
> Most people who are born with prosopagnosia don't even realize they're missing something. The brain automatically develops coping mechanisms, with effectiveness depending on the severity of the condition. Part of my research found [this article](https://www.washingtonpost.com/news/magazine/wp/2019/08/21/feature/my-life-with-face-blindness/) from a woman who was born with it and didn't realize until well into adulthood. My research (and common sense) found that people who develop it later in life due to trauma or circumstances have a harder time adapting. Now, imagine that plus a post-apocalyptic nuclear wasteland! It would have anyone on edge.
> 
> WARNING: some language in this fic may be considered ableist. People who are surprised or depressed say things they might not necessarily mean if they were being more careful with their words, and they use the wrong words to define things because they don't know the right words.

The first hint that something was wrong came in the Museum of Freedom. Preston met him at the door, with stark relief and an awful recounting of his group’s diminished numbers.

“Now there’s only five of us left,” he said, and Nate looked around, because no, that couldn’t be right. He’d seen--he’d been introduced to Preston, Sturges, Mama Murphy and the Longs, and there were at least four other people in here he didn’t have names for--and he turned back and Preston was gone. The man who’d taken his place was frowning slightly, as if puzzled

“Oh, hi,” Nate said, uncomfortable. He must have done something wrong, the way the guy was frowning. “Um, where did Preston go?”

The guy’s eyebrows went up, mouth dropping open. “Hey, Sturges,” he called, “can you come over here quick?” To Nate he said, “I think you might’ve hit your head out there. _I’m_ Preston.”

Nate hadn’t hit his head. His wrist hurt a little from the force with which he’d smashed a raider flat, but the stimpack had fixed everything else up. He had no idea what this guy was playing at. A little heatedly he began, “I was just talking to him, I think--”

Another unfamiliar man was approaching. Not Sturges; Nate had just met Sturges, and he didn’t recognize this guy at all. He glanced that way, tense, one hand going to his pistol, and moved to keep both men in his line of sight.

Not-Preston was gone. There was someone else standing in his place, exactly where Preston had been, wearing Preston’s distinctive clothes.

There were still only five people in the room. Nobody had left; he realized he would have heard the door.

Nate felt sick all of a sudden. He released his pistol, reached up and felt at his own head. Had he been hit? Did he just not remember?

“I can’t… I don’t recognize any of you,” Nate said slowly. “You’re the same, right? Preston, Sturges, Murphy, Marcy and Jun Long? There’s nobody else here?” He hated the sound of his voice: plaintive, like a child looking for reassurance.

“Nobody but us five,” The guy in Preston’s coat said gently.

Nate closed his eyes, and that was better. That was Preston’s voice, same as the one that called to him from the balcony and greeted him at the door.

“I don’t…” Nate trailed off. He didn’t know how to explain what was happening. “As soon as I look away from you, it’s like you’re gone, and there’s a brand new person standing where you are, every time. I can’t recognize…”

Nate remembered waking up in the Vault the second time. Tumbling out of the pod to his knees, dragging himself across the cold metal floor to the pod that had held his wife. He’d looked up…

And it wasn’t her. Someone had swapped the bodies, he thought. Or he was remembering wrong. But she wasn’t anywhere in the aisle, or in the facility at all. He’d decided that they must have taken her with them for some inscrutable reason. It didn’t matter; kidnappers or bodysnatchers, he’d hunt them down either way.

But that had been her in the pod. That body had had a bullet hole in the head. _That was Nora_ , and he hadn’t recognized her.

Distantly, Nate’s body stumbled back against a wall and slid down it, eyes watering. One hand clutched the other, wrapped around the edge of his palm and holding the shining gold wedding band on his finger. He put his head down so he wouldn’t have to see the toll that two hundred years had taken from him.

He could still remember her face. Maybe that was a small mercy: he didn’t have to remember her with that black and red hole in her head. He could remember his parents, his army buddies, even his first grade teacher--vaguely. And he could remember the face of man who killed his wife: bald, with a scar down the left eye.

The last face he was ever going to see.


	2. Maybe It's Psycho

Nick waited for Nate out in the hall. He didn’t know how long the man was going to take, but he was sure that it wasn’t going to be long enough.

Amari poked her head out of her doors, spotted him, and came out to join him. “He’s recovering,” she said quietly. “Should be conscious in a few minutes.”

Nick made an affirmative noise as he lit up a cigarette, offering another to Amari. He wasn’t too preoccupied to notice that she was still more than a little unsettled.

“That’s not how he usually is,” Nick offered, guessing at the source of her unease. She’d been able to see the same memories he and Nate had.

“I know,” she said quickly, irritable even as she took the cigarette and lit up. People didn’t look for or like comfort these days. Mostly it just reminded them of all the other little discomforts they’d grown used to. “It was a high stress situation all around; that’s why the memory imprinted so well. Guy had his kid. I get it.”

Nick nodded, dragging in a deep breath and breathing out smoke.

Amari did the same, leaning against the wall. After a moment’s silence, she asked, “Was it… psycho?”

“No. He won’t touch the stuff. Got over an addiction years ago.”

Her lips pursed as she looked at the doors back to her lab. Nick figured she was remembering.

_Nate didn’t give any indication--even Nick didn’t notice until the shot had already cracked through Kellogg’s kneecap. The synths fought back, but they weren’t worth much. Kellogg fought harder, but he’d started out crippled and Nate didn’t let up: aimed for his wrists with that unerring precision he had, even though Nick had seen him make headshots with a pistol he could have sworn were impossible._

_When the synths were sparking heaps of junk on the floor, Nate had Kellogg laid out--disarmed, literally, one hand shot clean off, the other a bloody pulp. Nate approached him slowly, put a bullet in his other kneecap a few paces away and kept coming without missing a step, without a change in his blank expression at all._

_He stood over Kellogg for a moment, staring, then crouched over him._

_“Do you have any idea what you took from me?” he asked, a muscle in his jaw twitching. From Kellogg’s point of view, Nick had been able to see the barely-leashed fury building._

_“Just finish it,” Kellogg sneered. “I’m not gonna scream, an’ I’m not gonna beg ya if that’s what you’re wanting.”_

_“I don’t want… anything from you.” Nate had to pause between words, anger had left him so breathless. His hands wrapped around Kellogg’s throat, applying a slow inexorable pressure. Nate’s face twisted into a grimacing mask of hate. “Except your suffering. If I could kill you slower, I would.” His grip was so tight his thumbs broke skin, arms trembling with tension. Gasping between words as if he was the one dying, Nate snarled, “All I want… is for mine… to be the last face... you ever see.”_

The last image from Amari’s memory machine was Nate’s face, lips peeled back from straight pearly pre-war teeth, nose curled and wrinkled in disgust, wide burning eyes glaring under a furrowed brow. It had upset Nick, and he’d _been there_.

He’d waited around for the whole five minutes it took Kellogg to die, Nate shuddering and shaking, holding on all the while. Amari hadn’t even seen the immediate aftermath, when Nate picked up his tire iron and beat Kellogg’s head into a bloody pulp. Though she had handled the memory implant, so maybe she had some idea.

“I do think there’s something we’re missing, though,” Nick commented, mostly for his own benefit. “It was… a bit much.”

She snorted, stubbed out her cigarette, and went back inside.

Not too long after, Nick picked up the sound of quiet voices inside. He resisted the nosy impulse to dial up the sensitivity on his sensors, instead doing his best not to pick out any words from the hum. He only caught the tail end as they approached the door.

“I am sorry I can’t help you more,” Amari said as she opened the door for Nate, her tone surprisingly sympathetic considering both her previous reaction to him and her usual attitude.

“It’s fine,” Nate said shortly. “I figured… well, I’m getting used to it. At least I’ve got a name for it now.” With a last grim smile, he turned and saw Nick sitting waiting for him, and as usual his eyes flicked down to the exposed synth parts in Nick’s neck before coming back up to his face. “Hey Nick. Thanks for waiting for me. Thanks for… everything, actually.” He sighed. “I think I owe you an explanation.”

“It would be nice,” Nick acknowledged, because he never turned down free information, although privately he hadn’t even been aware that something needed explaining. He already knew that Nate came out of pre-war cryo chasing his kidnapped son and wife’s murderer. There was _more_?

“After the cryo… it damaged something. In my brain.” Nate seemed to be struggling to find the words to explain himself, even though Nick had seen his silver tongue in action. “I can’t recognize faces any more. Not since I woke up.”

Nick didn’t really know how that might work, but he filed it in with Nate’s case in his memory, and came up with a few new connections. “You described Kellogg’s face to me, though. That’s how we found him. So... it was just the second round that damaged you.” Another connection formed as Nick was thinking aloud. He felt the ghost of pain in the heart he didn’t have any more. “Oh.”

Nate’s jaw flexed. “Yeah. That was the last… his was the last face I can remember seeing. I got--it hit me a little harder when I saw him again. I didn’t recognize him, not how I remember I should be able to, but I saw the fucking scar, and everyone else in the room was a synth, so.”

 _Synth_ , Nick repeated, another connection flashing. “ _That’s_ why you keep looking at my neck. I thought it was…” if he had blood and flesh, he might have blushed. 

He’d thought Nate might have some small issue with Nick’s synthetic nature, an aversion he was getting over or ignoring while Nick was helping him. Nick wouldn’t have even blamed him; it _was_ weird, especially for a pre-war guy.

Nick ground his vocal processors together, making a noise somewhat like clearing his throat. “Well, nevermind.”

“Yeah,” Nate nodded. He seemed relieved. “It’s just easier to use that than your eyes--they’re pretty unique, but it just… seems to take longer to process. Back at Sanctuary, there’s this guy Preston, a Minuteman, he’s always wearing the uniform coat, so I use that. Your coat’s pretty distinctive too, but…”

“It’s a dime a dozen in some parts of the Commonwealth,” Nick finished for him. “I get it. And you asked Amari if she could help you?”

“She can’t. She knows what it’s called--prosopagnosia--but she doesn’t think she can fix it.” His expression turned peevish for a moment. “She is interested in _studying_ me, though.”

“It’s her livelihood,” Nick said with a shrug.

“Yeah. Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. It’s just…”

“No, you have to keep that under wraps,” Nick agreed. “It’s too easy for someone to take advantage of a thing like that. Hell, normal people have to be paranoid about the Institute’s replacements--for you all it would take is a new set of clothes.”


	3. Keep Your Hat On

MacCready lined up the shot through his scope, focused for a moment on his other eye to catch the wind direction and check on Nate--not dead, still plowing his way through Gunners and an Assaultron with his stupidly suped-up pistol, all good--then breathed out and pulled the trigger. Winlock went down like a sack of bricks; not having most of a head will do that to a person.

Barnes went next. MacCready found him cowering in a little shack, identifiable by the way lower-ranked Gunners scurried around obeying his orders to _defend him, it’s one guy, what the fuck are you chucklefucks doing?_ But Nate and Dogmeat were professionals and slipperier than fish, and the Gunners didn’t even know MacCready was in this fight. Not yet.

He kept the shack’s window and doorway in his scope and waited, as patient as death itself. Sweat poured off his scalp, down both temples and the back of his neck.

Finally, Barnes had to poke his head out to assess the situation--bad, in a word, he was down to four men all hiding behind sandbags waiting for Nate to come finish them off--and MacCready was more than ready. He pulled the trigger without even thinking about it, sunk into a trance-like state by the waiting. Gray matter splashed the walls of the shack.

MacCready drew in a deep breath and grinned, rolling onto his back and taking the rifle with him, hugging it like a teddy bear. He kissed the hot barrel and only regretted it a little bit. Distantly, a few more shots rang out as Nate cleaned up.

After another moment basking in the afterglow, MacCready figured he should get down there and make sure Nate wasn’t walking around on a broken ankle again. He slung the rifle onto his back by its strap, took off his hat as he went so he could sop up some of the tension sweat. Those weren’t even the hardest shots he’d ever made, but they meant a hell of a lot more than his usual kills.

The click of a round being chambered brought him crashing back down to Earth. Nate’s pistol was pointing at MacCready’s head, his face a blank mask of stony concentration behind it. The dark circle of that barrel was the last thing a lot of people ever saw.

MacCready stopped in his tracks, hands going up automatically, hat dropping out from under his arm where he’d pinned it against his side. He didn’t know what was going on, or why Nate would turn on him _now_. Had he taken psycho? Was he riding out a high just reacting to every movement around him?

Dogmeat whined, standing next to Nate and looking up at him with visible confusion.

Nate’s eyes were narrow, darting around, though the gun never wavered. He looked down at Dogmeat, back at MacCready, and then his gaze landed on something at MacCready’s feet. The hat.

“MacCready?” he said cautiously, finger easing off the trigger. Thank God; that thing went off on a hair.

“Yeah,” MacCready replied hoarsely. “You, uh, okay boss?”

“You aren’t wearing your hat,” Nate said, as if that explained anything.

“...nope.” MacCready agreed. He still hadn’t put down his hands. He wondered what Nate had taken, if it was a bad batch or if he was just one of the people psycho hit different.

Nate frowned, then seemed to realize he was still aiming his pistol mostly at MacCready; he didn’t drop it, but he’d never flicked the safety on faster, and it went straight into the holster on his thigh. Nate gave a shuddering sigh. “Fuck. I’m sorry. I’m--I’ll be right back.”

MacCready was all too ready to let him come down in peace. They split up to do the looting, pocketing ammo and shinies and anything that looked both portable and valuable. Winlock still had that nice gun MacCready remembered. He was going to enjoy watching Nate take it to pieces for parts.

Nate was waiting for him by the lift when he was finished, crouched down and cleaning the blood off of Dogmeat’s face with a cloth not much cleaner than the dog. Dogmeat bore the attention with grace.

Nate looked up as MacCready approached--wearing the hat this time, since it seemed to be important to Nate for some reason. He smiled a tentative greeting.

“Ready to head out again?” MacCready asked.

“Yeah, but--something I gotta tell you first. Something I really should have told you before.” Despite his words, Nate clammed up right after saying that.

“Oookay,” MacCready drawled. He’d been planning on returning Nate’s caps, but if he was about to get fired or whatever, he wasn’t gonna bother.

“I can’t--I have some brain damage from my time on ice. I can’t recognize people’s faces.” Nate paused a moment, as if watching that sink in. MacCready didn’t react; he didn’t know how to. “So, uh, I use other things to keep track of people. Distinctive clothes, scars, facial features. For you, it’s your hat. That’s why I almost shot you. You weren’t wearing it.”

MacCready’s jaw worked for a second. Every word that wanted to come out was something he’d sworn he wasn’t gonna say anymore. Eventually he managed, in a high-pitched tone, “Yeah, that’s something I think I shoulda known earlier!”

“Sorry,” Nate said, appropriately chagrined. “But it’s something I have to keep under wraps--really close wraps. For the people I’m close to I have a bunch of ways to figure it out, clothes and voices and everything, but if, like… some other ghoul killed Daisy, put on her wig and stood behind the counter, I’d have no fucking clue. If someone wanted to hide from me, all they’d have to do is change their clothes and talk weird. If people knew… I wouldn’t be able to trust that anyone is who they say they are.”

“...oh.” MacCready tried to imagine what it might be like to not be able to recognize anyone. Then he had the thought _what if I couldn’t see Duncan anymore, what if I didn’t remember Lucy’s face_ , and his heart hurt so much he had to pinch himself on the wrist as a distraction. “I guess… I get it. Don’t blame you.”

Nate nodded, and without another word they got onto the lift to get back to solid ground. It was a long, jolting trip down in silence; MacCready used the time to go over things and try to slot this new information in with everything else he knew about Nate.

The short exchange before Nate had hired MacCready suddenly made a lot more sense in hindsight.

_The guy’s eyes flicked up to MacCready’s hat unsubtly; MacCready set his jaw and resisted the urge to tug the brim down defensively. People gave him shit over it sometimes, but he liked it--and covering the old Gunner tattoo was a big bonus._

_“You always wear that?” the guy asked._

_“Yeah,” MacCready answered immediately, his tone daring his potential employer to comment on it. Not the smartest move when you’re trying to get hired, but heck. Begin as you mean to continue and all that sh-stuff._

_He smiled, and it was like the sun coming out. Guy had a face made for soft looks like that. MacCready almost felt like he needed to frown just to set the balance of the world right. “Good.”_

Two hundred caps later, here they were.

“I’ll keep the hat on from now on,” MacCready said as the lift came to a shuddering halt on its platform.

Nate turned and smiled at him, that same sunny look, recognizing the peace offering for what it was. “You don’t have to _all_ the time. Just… warn me first.”

MacCready snorted and pulled the brim down, securing it more firmly.

He was keeping the two hundred caps though. Nate was loaded, and it was hazard pay.


	4. Mirrored

Deacon quick-changed his disguise right after meeting with the tourist informant, which was par for the course with him. He tried to change after almost every conversation or battle, though sometimes there wasn’t a cache or convenient clothes close enough. He ducked out from behind the old rusted bus and came face-to-muzzle with Nate’s pistol, and not the fun euphemism kind.

“Hi there,” he chirped, pasting on a grin. Man, he really hoped he was right about Nate. “Whatcha doin’?”

Nate looked down at Dogmeat and his ready stance relaxed slightly. “Why did you just change your clothes?” he asked. “And… your hair?”

“It was a wig,” Deacon explained. “Old world thing. Wait, you know.”

“Yeah, I could see that. It wasn’t a good one.” Nate said dryly. “Explain. Now.”

“So testy,” Deacon tsked. “It’s what I do; disguises are something of a specialty. I even go under the knife to change my face every month or so.”

Nate’s expression twisted oddly, Deacon noted with interest. He couldn’t tell what the man was thinking. Despite the man’s charisma--or maybe because of it--he was a difficult read.

“How many more times are you going to change your _disguise_?” Nate asked with blatant disdain.

“A few, probably,” Deacon replied with a shrug. He was used to people getting fed up with him; it was half the reason he did this shit. Nothing better for keeping people away. It usually didn’t work so quickly though.

Nate’s eye twitched. “Listen, we’re taking the escape tunnel to get in. Once you open it up for me, I don’t really need your help anymore. You’ll just get in my way.”

Deacon’s brows went up behind the sunglasses, a huff of a surprised laugh escaping. “Dude, you’re carrying two pistols, a grenade belt, and a cute puppy. You’re _gonna_ need my help. I’m definitely coming in.”

“ _Dude_ , if you change disguises in the middle of this operation again, I might just fucking shoot you,” Nate snapped. “I startle easy.”

This was not the first time someone had tried to threaten Deacon into quitting his antics. So far no one had followed through, and he doubted Nate would be the first. Guy seemed too nice for that. “Got it, no disguises,” Deacon lied, smiling.

Nate still eyed him. Apparently sensing he wouldn’t get anything better, he growled, “Stay behind me then. Try not to shoot me.”

Deacon made a mock-offended noise, even as he finally rankled a little under Nate’s doubt. The guy knew Deacon had spied on him across half the Commonwealth, he shouldn’t be underestimating Deacon’s skills so much.

Inside the old Switchboard, Deacon was reluctantly impressed. Nate cleared the tunnels like a professional, investigating every room as they passed it both for loot and hidden enemies. Deacon was, in fact, feeling a little extraneous--usually the rear guard’s duty was to _guard the rear_ , but Nate left nothing alive behind him, and most of the tunnels were too narrow and twisting for Deacon to snipe anything over his shoulder. On the other hand, he was feeling a little better now--Nate hadn’t looked back to check on Deacon even once, so obviously he trusted him at least a little.

In fact, Deacon was feeling downright friendly by the time they were finished. Nate had reclaimed the prototype and decided he might as well finish the job of clearing out all the rest of the Gen Ones and Twos up top, instead of backtracking through the cleared escape tunnel. Deacon wasn’t a fan of destroying synths ordinarily, but the familiar bodies in the tunnel had him feeling a little vengeful.

“You’re really good at murdering stuff,” Deacon complimented, shouldering his rifle. He’d taken the opportunity while Nate was looting to change again now that the fighting was over.

For the first time, Nate deigned to respond to one of his many inane comments, snorting and turning around to face him. “Thanks, it’s a skill I’ve been developing a lot recently. We should split up; I’ll see you back at the church.”

Deacon frowned. He’d been just about to suggest it himself, but this felt like Nate trying to get rid of him again. “Hey, do you like… have a problem with me? Did I do something to you?”

“Yes. And no.” Nate offered him a tight unhappy smile. “If things were different, we might be friends, Deacon. You seem like a… really dedicated guy, for a good cause. One I want to support. And I get the feeling that your friends wouldn’t like it very much if I came back without you because I thought you were someone else and shot you in the face.”

“Really bothers you that much, huh,” Deacon said flatly. Well, some people just couldn’t cope, right? He knew that.

Nate nodded, lips pressed together. “Sorry. I just can’t… have someone like you around. It’s not--well, I guess it is personal, isn’t it? That’s kind of the problem.” He smiled an insincere apology. “I’ll see you at the church. Dogmeat, heel.”

Dogmeat was watching Deacon with strangely intelligent, calculating eyes. He whuffed softly and pasted himself against Nate’s left leg on command. Neither looked back.

Deacon watched them go, eyes narrowing behind his sunglasses. He was sure, absolutely positive, that Nate wasn’t an Institute spy, or else he wouldn’t have vouched for the man. But he _was_ hiding something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nate: this fucking guy. this motherfucker is my living nightmare. does he know? is he fucking with me on purpose or is he just like this all the time??
> 
> When I started this one, I wasn't sure whether Nate should hate Deacon's trick or love it--sure he doesn't know what Deacon looks like, but then again, neither does anyone else. Finally on equal footing! But no, because other people can still catch on to some stuff and figure out a disguise, whereas Nate is fully SOL. And he can't just walk around assuming that every person in sunglasses is Deacon, that way leads to accidentally friending a stylish raider. So he really does not want to be Deacon's friend.


	5. Chem Break

“I’ll find you in a bit,” Hancock told Nate, already bee-lining for the nearest door of the State House. “Got some things to take care of while we’re in town.”

Nate waved him off with a smile and headed up to Kleo’s counter.

“New shipment of ballistic fiber just came in…”

Hancock swung the door open and announced himself with a braying, “Daddy’s home!”

“Welcome back, boss,” the nearest Watchman greeted with a rot-toothed grin. “Have fun out frolicking with the vaultie?”

“Can’t you tell?” Hancock shifted and pulled at the blood-and-grime-spattered edge of his red frock. “Boring don’t get you this dirty, brother.”

“I need some fresh dirt,” the ghoul sighed.

Hancock clapped him on the shoulder in commiseration and continued on up to his office. 

Fahrenheit was there tapping away on the terminal. Without turning around she said to him, “Good, you’re back. I usurped you while you were away, I just need the coat to make it official.”

“You’ll have to pry it off my corpse, Fahr,” Hancock grinned. “Anyway, I thought you didn’t want to be Mayor?”

“Yeah, because people would want to _bitch_ at me.” She finally turned around, fixing him with an evil look. “Guess what happens when you’re not here. Don’t sit down, get your ass to the Rex. You’ve got fires to put out.”

It was late evening when he finally descended into the Third Rail. He received a Mayor’s proper welcome, told Charlie to hand out a round on his tab, and ducked into the VIP room.

Nate was already there and well into the bottle if the empties laying around were any indication.

“There’s easier ways to get away from yourself these days,” Hancock commented, joining him on the couch. “Don’t gotta spend all these caps on liquor. Always preferred uppers, myself.”

“I’m always up,” Nate said carefully, lifting his head off the back of the couch for a second and then dropping it again, instead rolling toward Hancock. He enunciated slowly so he wasn’t slurring. “That’s the problem. Always gotta be up and up and paying attention.”

Hancock snickered. “Sounds… hard.”

Nate snorted and rolled his head back toward the ceiling again. “It is. That’s why I like your red coat, and the hat and the sash and everything. It’s so easy.”

“Hey, now,” Hancock objected, “I work hard to look this good. You think it’s easy?”

“No, no, I mean… it’s easy to tell you apart from everyone else,” Nate explained, picking up one of his arms to wave it heavily around the empty room. “Ugh. I shouldn’t be saying this, right?” He looked over at Hancock again. “But maybe you should know. I almost shot MacCready once.”

“Had the impulse myself a couple times,” Hancock lied lightly. He wondered what MacCready had done to make Nate want to shoot him.

“I… not cause I wanted to,” Nate insisted, frowning. “But he took his damn hat off. I couldn’t tell for sure it was him at first. Doesn’t help he still looks like a Gunner, with the stupid coat. You know I gave him a new one? He said he didn’t like it.”

Hancock maybe wasn’t on enough mentats to process this conversation, so he popped one real quick while Nate swigged from his bottle again.

“Whad’ya mean you couldn’t tell it was him?” Hancock asked as the mentats kicked in. “What’d he have a funny mustache on or something?” He snorted at his own joke, imagining it.

“No, he looked normal. I mean, far as I can tell. I don’t know. I can’t remember faces. Got… proposoginia or something. Amari knows what it's called. She can’t fix it.” Nate stared morosely at the bottom of the now-empty bottle. He sighed. “Fuck. Don’t let me drink anymore, Hancock. ‘M not gonna be able to stop.”

“Brother, you have come to the wrong ghoul about addiction management,” Hancock’s mouth said while the rest of his brain picked through Nate’s words. “Wait, what was that about faces? You really can’t see ‘em?” It certainly explained why Nate, the pre-War relic, had an unusually mild reaction to meeting his first non-feral ghoul.

“I can _see_ ‘em fine,” Nate replied. He leaned forward to try to snatch up one of the other bottles on the table, and scowled at Hancock when the ghoul used a foot to nudge them out of reach. “Just can’t remember at all. It’s like… you ever walked into a room and forgotten why you went in there? Kinda like that. Not really. I had a better thing I thought up when I was sober, but I can’t remember it now.”

“Sounds like it sucks. So you almost shot MacCready because you thought he was a Gunner?”

“‘Cuz he took the stupid hat off,” Nate nodded. “And that’s how I tell him apart from other people. Other stuff too, but the hat’s the first thing I notice.”

Hancock looked down at his red frock and the faded flag sash. “I get ya. I must be real easy to pick out of a crowd.”

With no more liquor to drink, Nate leaned back again and yawned. “We’re only gonna be in trouble if we ever stumble into a Revolutionary War reenactment.”

“You weirdos used to reenact wars?” Hancock demanded. Nate’s eyes were closed; he didn’t respond. “Hey, vaultie, wake the fuck up! You didn’t have enough wars so you had to reenact the old ones?”


	6. Almost Getting Shot Multiple Times

“Hey there, hot stuff,” Deacon drawled, sliding up next to Nate at the Third Rail’s bar. He smiled sweetly at Charlie when the robot slid a beer in front of him without even being asked.

Nate cast a look along his shoulder, taking him in. Hopefully he would be a little friendlier; Deacon had stripped away most of his current disguise for this. He’d even lost the sunglasses, and he didn’t do that on just a whim.

“Sorry,” said Nate, turning his head away again to stare down into his bottle of Nuka-Cola. He did not sound very sorry. “Not interested.” Raised one hand, thumb spinning a gold band on his ring finger. “And married.”

Deacon’s eyebrows went up. Nate clearly hadn’t recognized him despite being about a foot away and their time bonding over broken synths. Deacon bit the inside of his cheek, impulses warring within him. Eventually he figured he hadn’t had nearly enough fun lately, and it would be _hilarious_ to see how long it took Nate to realize. Plus, Deacon thought he’d left a much bigger impression; his pride was a little stung.

“Can’t even let me buy you a drink?” Deacon leaned one elbow on the bar, turning to face Nate fully. “I’m sure your wife wouldn’t want you to keel over of dehydration.”

Nate picked up his bottle of soda and waved it pointedly, still not looking at Deacon. “Give up.”

Deacon gave a dramatic, put-upon sigh. “Whatever. You know, the sexy brooding ‘my wife is dead’ thing only works if you--”

He cut himself off, just barely leaning back in time to dodge when Nate grabbed at his neck. The attack was sudden and so unexpected that Deacon was left off balance. Nate’s other hand managed to grab the front of the flannel shirt he was wearing, dragging him in close. Deacon was no stranger to physical combat, but Nate was bigger, stronger, and had his feet planted firmly.

“Who the fuck are you,” Nate demanded quietly when he had Deacon pinned against the bar. The cold muzzle of a pistol pressed ungently against the back of his neck.

The sound of Charlie’s rocket drifted away, the bartender giving them space to sort out their differences. Nobody in the Third Rail would be inclined to help a stranger out of a bind.

So this has stopped being funny. “Chill, dude. It’s me. Deacon.”

He could _feel_ Nate thinking in the shift of his grip. Finally he said, “Prove it.”

“Fucking hell, my disguises are pretty good but I’m not even trying right now,” Deacon snapped. “Freedom trail, geiger counter in the shop, et cetera--let me up, my neck is getting a cramp.”

“What’s the name of the gun I picked up at the Switchboard?”

Jesus this guy was careful. On one hand, good. On the other, seriously inconvenient right now. “Uh, fuck. Destroyer? Devastator? Deliverer! Final answer, Deliverer.” He’d just remembered the joke he’d made when Tinker Tom named it. “Cuz, heh, it can remove your liver. De-liver-er.”

The gun left his head and was holstered again before Deacon was even fully upright. He rubbed at the sore spot, imagining he could already feel the bruise forming. “I’m all for op sec, but you take it pretty far.” He paused for a beat. “I like that. Just not when it’s pointed at me.”

Nate just gave him a tired look and sat back down. “What do you want, Deacon?” He raised a hand to flag down Charlie and replace the bottle that had spilled.

“Got a job for us,” Deacon replied, sitting down next to him again. He had to tell his nerves to settle with a stern thought and few calming breaths. Part of his awareness was now attuned keenly to Nate’s every move, waiting for the next attack.

Nate said flatly, “I’d prefer to work with someone else.”

Deacon shrugged. “I’d prefer if Carrington was a little more gentle during exams, but sometimes we don’t get what we want.” _Why are you afraid of working with me? What are you hiding?_

“Fine.” Nate threw back his cola, looking like he wished it was something stronger. “Anything nice you want me to say for your eulogy?”

“The usual lies should do--nice guy, gone too soon, should’ve been me. Relax, we’re just clearing a spot for a settlement and safehouse. That’s like, a usual Tuesday for you, _General_.”

“Then I won’t need you on the job,” Nate countered quickly.

Deacon clicked his tongue. “Too bad you don’t know where we need cleared out.”

“Fine,” Nate snapped again. “Is this an urgent call, or can it wait until morning?”

“Morning’s fine,” Deacon sipped at his beer.

Nate stood. “Meet you outside here at dawn. If you’re late I’m leaving without you. Yes, I don’t know where we’re going. You’ll just have to fucking catch up.”

* * *

Deacon waited outside the Third Rail, smoking a cigarette and leaning heavily against the wall to keep his disguise as a drifter unlucky enough not to have found a bed last night. He’d tucked under the cover of the alcove to get out of a chilly morning misting of rain; any breath he didn’t suck through the filter felt like breathing water.

He had a good view of the whole square, enough to watch Nate come from the direction of the Hotel Rexford with loyal Dogmeat at his side. Nate paused near a corner, taking in the early Goodneighbor traffic--not much, just some Watchmen and a few other drifters living more honest lives than Deacon’s.

Nate crouched down next to Dogmeat, wrapping an arm over the dog’s shoulders, and said something in his ear. The dog perked up and took off like a shot, investigating a few passersby with cursory sniffs before he came to Deacon, who he barked at, tail up like a flag.

“I was gonna come over to you,” Deacon said as Nate approached.

“I don’t want to hear it. Where are we going?”

Deacon sucked back the rest of the cigarette and tossed it in the nearest trash pile. He didn’t miss the way Nate’s eyes followed the glowing filter, lips thinning. Vaultie should have learned by now that the entire world was a trash heap. “Little place called Hangman’s Alley. Some raiders have it right now, it’s got great fortifications but they aren’t very good at using them effectively. Should be a cakewalk.”

Nate started walking for the front gate, Dogmeat heeling without a command. “Remind me why you want to tag along.”

“Mmmm… pretty much because you obviously don’t want me to.” Deacon was in fact ignoring a dead drop he could be retrieving right now. It was fine. Nobody would die, probably. More pressing was the question of why Nate had such a fierce aversion to him. “Why is that, by the way?”

Nate didn’t look back at him when he responded, “I don’t like the thing you do with your disguises. I can’t--won’t work with that. Also, it’s incredibly stupid to do it in the _middle_ of an op.”

“Right in the middle is the best time,” Deacon refuted idly. Come to think of it, Nate almost never looked at him. Hadn’t at the Switchboard, hadn’t down in the Third Rail. When he stopped into HQ to pick up assignments and drop off reports, Deacon might as well not exist for all the acknowledgement he got. What was he afraid of Deacon finding out?

He returned to the basics: caps, belief, and ego. By all accounts, Nate was _rolling_ in caps, so he probably wasn’t turning tricks on the side and trying to hide it out of shame. Well, he might be, but not for caps. Belief? Deacon couldn’t think of where they might have diverged there--Nate barely knew him, let alone knew enough to know where they didn’t see eye to eye. That left ego.

Maybe it really was just that Nate kept getting fooled by his disguises. Guy couldn’t pin him down even when Deacon wasn’t trying, needed his dog just to figure it out. Maybe it was just embarrassing for him.

That didn’t feel like the whole story, but it was the best Deacon had at the moment.


	7. The End of the World

“I am your son. I am Shaun.”

Nate flinched back at the declaration, reflexively denying it. It couldn’t be. This was an old man, older than Nate himself. Shaun was a baby, or a ten-year-old boy, not… this.

“No, you can’t be,” Nate told him, too shocked to even be angry. Not yet. He could feel it building though, the same storm of blind fury that had let him hold down even Kellogg with all his enhancements. Nate never used to get angry like that before the cryo.

Kellogg. “Kellogg was the one who took Shaun, I saw him. He looked exactly the same… hadn’t aged…” Hadn’t he? How would Nate know? Was his ability to compare faces as fucked up as his ability to recognize them? Probably. He hadn’t recognized Nora.

The old man’s eyes shuttered slightly, an expression of bland distaste crossing his face. “Kellogg was the recipient of several experimental augmentations, one of which greatly extended his lifespan. He was far older than he appeared.”

Every night before he fell asleep, Nate stopped to try to remember Nora’s face. He’d already lost some parts of it--wasn’t sure about her jawline, her ears. He could still call up the shape of her mouth frowning in concentration or smiling, her eyes in laughter, her brow. He couldn’t see any of it in the man claiming to be Shaun. Maybe he didn’t want to.

“How do I know you’re telling the truth?” Nate rasped, throat thick with emotion. “How can I trust you?”

Too late, he remembered that he couldn’t. Shouldn’t. He was here for himself, yes, but also the Railroad. He was here for the enslaved synths. He didn’t really want a reason to trust the old man.

“You’ll want proof, of course,” the man nodded. He seemed pleased, again in that distant way. “I can show you previous DNA results, or run a new test in front of you so that you can be assured the results aren’t doctored. Unfortunately, I can offer no other proof. Our DNA is the only thing we’ve shared… so far.”

“What… what is that supposed to mean?”

The old man smiled. “I want you to join the Institute, father.”


	8. The Freedom Trial

“--don’t think we can trust him.”

Nate paused just inside the door. There were a lot of problems with having an old tunnel as a base; it was by turns damp, clammy, always too cold or too hot, and nobody had figured out how to get the smell of old socks to go away. And sometimes the arched ceilings transmitted words to places they weren’t meant to go.

Across the room, Deacon and Desdemona were conversing quietly in a corner, heads bent together. Deacon was recognizable by the sunglasses and because he was using his normal tone of voice; Desdemona tended to wear the same scarf almost all the time, plus she had a very specific voice. Those two and Tinker Tom with his weird hat were the only ones Nate was confident identifying. Carrington and Glory were either out of the base or had changed. 

The rest of the people in HQ were studiously pretending Deacon and Desdemona’s conversation wasn’t happening, since the tunnel also didn’t afford much in the way of privacy.

“You’re the one who vouched for him,” Desdemona pointed out, sounding frustrated. “Has something changed?”

“Yeah, when I have-- _had_ \--eyes on him twenty-four seven. If he’d disappeared long enough for the Institute to replace him, I woulda known about it. You didn’t tell me you were _sending him in there_. I won’t be able to tell you for sure what he is if he comes back out.”

“Nobody can. That’s kind of the point of them.”

“I can. I know more about people than they know about themselves, that’s my job. Put ‘em in a new situation, something the memories don’t have support for, and the synth doesn’t know how they’re supposed to react. I do.”

“You’re saying you don’t trust your read on Charmer.”

“I’m saying I barely have a read on the guy. Plays his cards real close to his chest. And I _know_ he’s hiding something.”

Nate decided he’d overheard enough. He left the corner, immediately fading the words to an unintelligible murmur, and approached the two.

Noise hushed as the other agents realized who had returned. From his usual lab corner, Tinker Tom whooped and exclaimed to no one, “I _told_ you it worked!” It attracted even Desdemona’s attention, drawing her away from Deacon. She looked at him with wide eyes, and Nate knew in that moment that she hadn’t really expected to see him again.

That was fine. Nate hadn’t expected to walk out of the Institute either.

“Charmer,” she said, overcoming the shock quickly. “You’re back.” Eyes flicking to either side of him, noting an absence. “Did you find…?”

“I found him,” Nate told her tiredly. “That’s why I’m back. It was… they took him sixty years ago. He’s an old man now.” 

He almost didn’t believe it himself, even seeing the DNA results. It didn’t feel real. It _wasn’t_ real. He felt nothing for old Shaun--he’d felt more for the little synth boy, even when it was sitting shut down in its little cell. That was wrong, wasn’t it? Shouldn’t a father just _know_?

Bitterly, he continued, “He’s the _Director_ of the Institute now.”

Eyes wide and excited, she said, “That could prove _very_ useful. What about Tom’s holotape? Did you make contact with Patriot?”

Nate knew better than to expect sympathy from Desdemona, but the tunnel-vision focus on the mission still sat wrong in his stomach. He was lucky she’d even remembered his original reason for going to the Institute at all. Wasn’t she worried that he’d been replaced? Wasn’t that just what Deacon had been warning her about?

Deacon stood behind her, watching Nate warily over her shoulder. At least Nate thought so. It was hard to tell with the sunglasses. Not for the first time, he wanted to rip them off the man’s face.

“I made contact with Patriot. They let me wander around the inside pretty freely once I told the Director I was thinking about joining up.”

“I can already tell this is going to be an incredible opportunity,” Desdemona’s small smile was all grim triumph. “Write up your full report on P.A.M.’s terminal, she’ll analyze the information and we can discuss what to focus on next--”

“Dez,” Deacon said, taking a step forward to put himself right next to Desdemona. The mirrored lenses of his sunglasses were still pointed directly at Nate. “I think you’re missing a step here.”

Tensely, “If Charmer is compromised, the Railroad is already doomed. We have to assume he isn’t because the alternative is that we break up and go to ground _permanently_. He didn’t come back with a squad of Coursers, that’s all the proof I need.” Her piece said, Desdemona threw a dirty look at Deacon and walked away, back to the planning table.

“Why’d they let you go?” Deacon asked Nate. “If you told them you were going to join up, why did they let you come back?”

“They’ve been needing someone to carry out surface operations since I killed Kellogg. I’ve proved I’m pretty effective at getting things done up here, so I got the job.”

Deacon’s mouth twitched into a knowing smirk. “Which means eventually, they’re going to send you after us.”

Nate let the pause after that drag on for just a little too long. Just half a heartbeat of hesitation. “Yes. Eventually.”

All expression cleared off Deacon’s face, leaving it blank. Nate wondered if he’d changed it recently. “Guess we’ll find out then.”

Nate’s jaw clenched before he could stop himself, and he knew Deacon saw it. He’d walked in here thinking he was going to have to tell them finally. About his condition, about what the Institute had offered him. Maybe the Railroad could match it. Maybe Carrington and Amari could work together, could tell Nate what tech and knowledge they needed him to scrounge out of the Institute. 

But what if they couldn’t? 

“Guess you will.”


	9. Sad Bastards

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter necessitated adding some tags. Sorry in advance to anyone blindsided by the content, it kind of blindsided me too - was not in the original plan. I have not tagged the pairing because it's not endgame (there is no endgame pairing).

Nate came through Goodneighbor about once a week if his other business didn’t keep him away. Hancock always looked forward to his visits, both for the influx of caps and the possibility that Nate might have a job he wanted Hancock for.

“Thought you mighta got tired of my little corner of paradise,” Hancock greeted Nate with a grin and a one-armed hug. He stepped back after to give Dogmeat his hello pat on the head. “Or maybe that you were feral chow in some grungy subway, but your little doggie wouldn’t let that happen, would you Dogmeat?”

Dogmeat, recognizing that he was being addressed, barked in answer with his tail wagging a mile a minute.

“Good boy,” Hancock cooed, tossing him a bit of Brahmin jerky he’d been saving for later.

“Pulled my ass out of more fires than I care to remember,” Nate said fondly, rubbing Dogmeat’s ears. “What’ve you been up to, Hancock? Anything new?”

“Not much trouble since the last time you visited. C’mon, let’s talk upstairs,” Hancock led the way into the State House and up the spiral staircase. Once Nate was safely ensconced on the couch in his office, he closed the door.

“So, you’re alive,” he said, letting the relief show on his face. “What happened? Did it work?”

Nate nodded, looking off to one side with a sigh. “The teleporter worked, mainly thanks to Tinker Tom. Got into the Institute. You should probably sit down, it’s a long one.”

Hancock did, taking a seat on the other end of the couch while Nate spoke. Around about the middle he jumped up again, restless, and got them both some Nuka-Cola to drink. Nate looked at the bottle like he wished it was something stronger, but didn’t say anything, just kept telling his story.

“And I said yes,” Nate said. He was leaning forward with his elbows planted on his knees staring distantly at his soda, picking mindlessly at the label. “So now I guess I’m a spy for the Railroad. Which was always the plan, not that anyone thought it was actually going to happen. Just turns out my son is the Director.”

He sighed, a deep shaking thing, the tremor before an earthquake, and put one hand over his eyes, letting the soda bottle dangle from the other. “I was--I don’t know what I was expecting. Shaun as a baby. Shaun as a little kid. Shaun dead. I could have dealt with any of that. I had--plans.”

“What were you gonna do if he was dead?” Hancock asked quietly. He’d moved over as Nate was talking, to put a comforting--he hoped--arm around the man’s shoulders. Nate was leaning into him at least. “Seems to me that’s closest thing.”

Nate shrugged, tilting his head up to look Hancock in the eye. “Move on, I guess. I needed closure.”

Hancock’s mouth twisted. “Can’t do that if you’re infiltrating, though. Damn.”

“Yeah,” Nate agreed softly. His gaze had dropped to somewhere below Hancock’s eyes. “Hey, Hancock…”

“Yeah?”

“That, uh, that flirting thing you do… is that for real? Or just for fun?”

“Oh, it’s fun,” Hancock assured him, watched the disappointment begin, and added with a grin, “But it’s also for real, if you’re interested.”

* * *

After, Hancock sat up against the headboard, folded one arm behind his head, lit a cigarette, and asked, “So, did you figure it out?”

“Is that tobacco or something else?” Nate was laid out next to him, hands pillowed under his head, eyes following the cigarette. “And what are you talking about?”

“House blend. I’m talkin’ about whatever it was that made you take a ghoul for a ride,” Hancock gestured vaguely, ember leaving a bright trail in the air. “And uh, don’t take this the wrong way if I’m off base, but I’m pretty sure you’re not into men.”

Nate flushed adorably, though it was hard to tell since he was still running a little hot. “I might be,” he said defensively, then glanced at Hancock’s skeptical expression and capitulated. “Fuck. Sorry, Hancock. It’s not… I didn’t hate it.”

“Oh, I know,” Hancock shot him a half-lidded lascivious look. “Nobody regrets a round in my bed if I can help it. But around the time you had to close your eyes to get off I started suspectin’ maybe there was an ulterior motive happening. So, what was it? Little experimentation?”

Nate brought his hands out from behind his head and set them on his chest, picking at his fingers. “It’s… you know it’s been a few months. Since the Vault.”

“Mm-hm.”

“I tried… with a woman. Not too long ago. Couldn’t do it. I _knew_ , the whole time I knew… I wasn't fooling myself, right? But a part of me still kept thinking about Nora. How it could be her. I’d never know. This… _thing_ would make pretending so easy.” Hancock released the cigarette when Nate reached for it, dragged in a huge lungful of smoke. “Can’t do that to some poor woman. Or myself, really. It’s just sad. So, I figured I’d try out for the other team.”

 _Other team_ , Hancock mouthed to himself, but didn’t question what was probably another weird pre-War aphorism. Out loud he said, “Well, I give you a silver star. Good effort, good execution. The passion could use some work. Don’t worry, it’s not the first time someone’s had to be blind to sleep with me.”

Nate slapped at Hancock’s thigh with the back of one hand. “Stop saying shit like that. You’re so hard on yourself-- _not like that_ , you fucking teenage-brained ass. God.”

Hancock chuckled and stole back his smoke. “Alright, alright. You figure it out? Am I gonna get a round two sometime?”

Nate’s smile dimmed; Hancock was abruptly and intensely sorry he’d asked.

“Yeah,” Nate murmured, staring blankly down at his hands again. “I got my answer. Thanks, Hancock. Really. You’re the best friend a guy could ask for.”

Nate left in the morning, trying his best to look like he wasn’t running away. Hancock saw him off with a smile, wave, and a handful of Med-X for his travels. Too late, he saw Fahrenheit standing at the bottom of the stairs looking up.

“Ah, shit,” he muttered, going back to his office. Maybe if he looked like he was at work, she’d leave it.

No such luck. “That’s a walk of shame if I ever saw one,” she said, leaning against the door frame. “You finally told him?”

Hancock glanced at her, unsure of how much was showing on his face. “Nah,” he drawled. Too light, too casual. She knew him well enough to see. Still he continued, “You know me, Fahr, fickle as the breeze. No point in saying anything when I’ll have moved on by the next time he’s in town.”

Fahrenheit straightened up, unfolding her arms. “Hancock…” she trailed off. It was unusual to see her even a little uncertain. She rallied, “It’s been months already. When do you think that’s going to happen?”

“Got it out of my system,” Hancock pointed out. He fished around in his pockets for some Mentats, then changed his mind and grabbed the Daytripper. He mumbled, “Next time, for sure.”


	10. Dog Days

Preston proceeded steadily on his usual patrol route around Sanctuary, one foot in front of the other on the well-worn dirt path. His footsteps were nearly silent, completely lost under the burble of the slow-moving stream to his right. That was how he accidentally snuck up on Nate and Dogmeat.

He hadn’t even known Nate was back in Sanctuary, but here he was, hidden from the main road by a thick tangle of brush and trees. He was kneeling, arms wrapped around the dog, face buried in his scruff. Dogmeat had his forepaws hooked over the back of Nate’s bent neck, head laying along his shoulder as it shook.

“Damn,” Preston swore softly before he could stop himself.

Nate shoved to his feet in an instant, breaking away from Dogmeat and bringing one hand up to quickly dash at his eyes. He turned to Preston, spine and shoulders straight, face blank and empty for a moment, until abruptly he smiled.

“Hey, Preston. What’s up?” It was that blinding smile. 

Preston hadn’t realized that it was _meant_ to be blinding so that you couldn’t see past it. It didn’t work so well when his eyes were still red.

“General,” Preston paused, biting his lip for a second. “Um, if you ever need to talk about anything….”

“Talk?” Nate’s head cocked slightly, eyebrows going up. “About what? Is there a settlement that needs help?”

Preston felt a sharp disconnect, as if he and Nate somehow weren’t occupying the same space. _He_ was standing in a secluded little hiding spot, having just found a man crying on his dog. _Nate_ was the Minuteman General standing in front of his Colonel waiting for a report.

“I… no. Nothing.” Preston swallowed thickly. He was probably the last person Nate would open up to; Preston was the one who put the weight of the Minutemen on his shoulders. But he was here to help Nate bear it, any way Nate would let him. “Sorry, General. I’ll get back to my patrol.”

He passed them, giving Dogmeat a friendly pat on the head as he went. The dog whined at him.

“Preston--wait.”

Preston stopped again, turned around. Nate was frowning, gaze cast down at the ground. Not looking up, he said, “That was wrong. Shouldn’t have done that to you. You don’t deserve it.”

“I don’t know,” Preston replied, shifting from one foot to the other tiredly. “Maybe I do. I’m the one who put us here, right?”

“No, you’re--you are my friend, whatever that’s worth now. You’ve done more for me than almost anyone, and you never expected anything in return.” Nate sighed bitterly, shoulders slumping. “It’s just… I don’t think talking is going to help. It won’t fix what’s wrong.”

“What is it?” Preston asked immediately. Maybe he could help--

“I can’t--I can’t do this.” Nate buried both his hands in his hair, fingers curling hard into his scalp. “I can’t do this for the rest of my life, Preston. I can’t.” He turned away, paced in an agitated circle. Dogmeat whined and tried to get between his legs. “I _won’t_. I would, literally, rather fucking die.”

Preston’s heart was beating fast and hard against his ribs, nearly painful. “Nate, what are you talking about? What is it?”

“You! Everyone! I can’t remember you! I can’t remember fucking anyone!” Nate stopped pacing, throwing his arms out as he finally faced Preston. “My best friend is a dog because at least I recognize him! I can’t be around _people_ , God fucking forbid they change their clothes, I’ll think they’re a raider sneaking up and shoot them.” 

His eyes were glittering, shedding tears when he blinked hard. In a ragged murmur, “I don’t know--I’ve killed a lot of people since cryo. I don’t know how many. It doesn’t _matter_. It doesn’t _bother_ me like it used to. I can’t remember them. It’s like you’re not real. None of you are real.” He sucked in a shuddering breath. “I can’t live like this. I can’t do this for the rest of my life.”

Preston knew he had a wide-eyed shocked look on his face. He couldn’t help it. He said softly, “Nate… I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” He could feel his own eyes burning with sympathetic tears.

Nate’s jaw clenched up. “Because I didn’t tell you, because you can’t help.” He took another deep breath, this one calmer. “It’s fine. I know who can.”


	11. Laser Eyes and Two Guns

Deacon had interviewed the original settlers of Sanctuary pretty much the moment Nate first left on his quest to Diamond City--for a value of interview that included subtly trying to dig out information they didn’t know they had. It turned up nothing he didn’t particularly expect--frozen pre-war vaultie and all that came with that, seemed like a nice guy, shame about his kid. 

He hadn’t talked to Marcy Long at the time, both because she seemed too prickly to have had a heart-to-heart with Nate and too prickly to have one with Deacon. He was regretting that. Could have saved him a lot of trouble.

“The General,” Marcy’s expression twisted in distaste, not that it ever seemed to leave her. “What the fuck ever. If that soft-headed fool Garvey wants to put an even softer head in charge, well, the Minutemen aren’t worth much anyway, right?”

“Softer head?” Deacon asked. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She stopped weeding for a moment, scowling even harder at the mutfruit bush. “Man’s got brain damage. Can’t see faces or something. Think about _that_ before you decide to join up.”

She’d already ripped up one side and down the other about the Minutemen when Deacon introduced himself as looking to join up.

 _Can’t see faces?_ Deacon thought. “Wait, how’s that work?”

Suddenly Marcy turned shifty. Reticent. Likely she’d realized she’d spilled too much in her anger. “I don’t know. Only heard something once, maybe I misheard it. Either way, the Minutemen are barely useful as a warning system. As in, you see them forming up, you get the hell out of Dodge.”

Preston Garvey was more informative, once Deacon had introduced himself as a concerned friend of Nate’s. Deacon opened subtly with a pile of evidence that he really did know Nate that well--talking about helping him look for Shaun and the Institute, work with the Railroad, that little shit MacCready he’d finally offloaded to DC a couple months ago--and then dug for the real dirt.

“So, the face thing,” he said vaguely.

Garvey’s mouth twisted, half of a frown. “Yeah?”

“We had a little… mishap,” Deacon spitballed, throwing together a few conclusions from his past conversations with Nate. “He told me a little about it, but didn’t really get into specifics. Didn’t seem to want to talk about it.”

Garvey shrugged uncomfortably. “Yeah, I get that. Anyone get hurt?”

“Nothing a stimpack or two didn’t fix. Said something about faces and made himself scarce. Is there anything I should say to him, y’know? Or something to avoid?” Deacon was hoping Garvey wouldn’t press him for details, but he had them ready if necessary. 

Garvey hesitated a moment, then broke and said, “It’s really not a big deal I think. Just don’t change anything about what you’re wearing without telling him first. He recognizes people mostly by their clothes and voices.”

“Because he can’t see faces,” Deacon checked. It still sounded like something from a comic book to him. Little Natey fell into a vat of radioactive material and went face blind, but he gained the power to dual-wield pistols well enough to go one-on-one with a behemoth. Not a bad trade.

Preston snorted. “Man, he’s really dumbing it down now if that’s what he told you. He can see faces, just can’t remember them. He has a really hard time remembering people, so--the clothes thing.”

Several puzzle pieces rotated and fell into place in Deacon’s head. It all fit. Made sense. Of course Nate hated him--Deacon was his worst nightmare. He had to keep himself from breaking cover and grinning. Job well done, Deacon, you go man.

Garvey shifted again, looking around. Deacon had caught him on guard duty up on Sanctuary’s tower, nothing and no one around but quiet darkness and crickets. “You work with him pretty often, right?” Garvey asked. His tone before had been quiet, but this was positively confidential. Deacon smelled a juicy secret.

“Going to meet up with him ‘bout a week from now,” Deacon lied, drawing in closer.

“Listen--don’t tell him I told you this--but please keep an eye out for him.” Garvey’s lips pressed together for a moment, his wide brown eyes concerned, almost pleading. “I’m worried about what he’s planning to do. Last time we talked… it didn’t sound like anything good.”

Deacon’s blood went cold. “Tell me exactly what he said.”


	12. One If By Teleportation

“Change of plans, Des,” Deacon said as soon as Nate had teleported ahead into the Institute.

Desdemona looked up from the railway rifle she was checking, narrowing her eyes at him. “What now, Deacon?”

“Charmer,” Deacon said.

“This is _really_ not the time--” she began heatedly. Nate was going to signal in a few minutes, and she and everyone else the Railroad could get together were going to storm the Institute.

“I think he’s planning something,” Deacon cut her off, even though he knew it would just piss her off more. “Look, all I’m asking is you let me go before everyone else. I go when he gives the signal, then you wait for mine.”

“You still think he’s leading us into a trap,” Desdemona stated. “I gotta say, it’s a pretty convoluted plan if so. He freed those synths at Bunker Hill. He framed their head of security and got him replaced.”

“Okay, well, first, we only have his word for that second one,” Deacon pointed out. “But whatever. I checked in with his friends up in Sanctuary, who had some real interesting things to say about Charmer. Too much to get into now. All you gotta know is that I have very good reason to believe he’s going to do something drastic. Something he might not even really want to do, but he thinks he needs to.”

He watched the muscle at the corner of Des’ jaw flex hard. After a moment, she said with a hard look at Deacon, “Fine. You go ahead. But Deacon, if you don’t send your signal, that’s it. The Railroad will be dead. We can’t come back from this.”

Deacon nodded. That was fine. The Railroad could die as long as its people didn’t. Not again.

The radio beeped; Nate was giving them the all-clear.

“Good luck,” Desdemona murmured. “Deacon, I hope to God you’re wrong.”

He swallowed thickly. “Me too.”

The room was bright white, clean except for the fresh blood spatter and the smell of gunpowder. There were two synths and three humans lying dead in various positions around the room.

“Where are the others?” Nate asked, glancing past Deacon like they might all be hidden behind his frame. Then he looked at Deacon a little more closely and said, “Ah.”

“Just a little precaution,” Deacon said with an empty smile. “It’s Deacon, by the way.”

“... I know.” Nate didn’t quite nail the inflection. He should have sounded more puzzled if he was pretending to not know why Deacon would introduce himself.

“Just making sure, y’know. What with your… condition.” Deacon stepped off the relay platform.

“What condition are you talking about?” Nate asked.

“The one where you can’t recognize people by their faces.” Deacon shook his head, though he was careful never to let Nate out of his sight. He held his rifle relaxed but ready in front of him. “I cannot believe it took me this long to find out. It’s really kind of embarrassing for me. Big-time fail at my only job.”

Nate looked away. “Yeah, right. Happy now? You know the big secret. When are the others coming in? Someone’s going to notice these dead bodies eventually. The smell, if nothing else.”

“They aren’t coming until I say it’s safe,” Deacon told him. “Sorry. Last minute change of plans. Security concerns, you understand. One of our own may have betrayed us. Gotta make sure it’s safe.”

Nate turned with a wide-eyed, speechless look of outrage. He stared at Deacon for a long couple of seconds. Deacon’s index finger slipped onto the trigger.

Nate saw it, gaze darting down for a split second. His eyes shuttered with a deep, almost relieved sigh. “Okay then. Go on back, Deacon. Tell them I’m a traitor.” His mouth turned up in a blank smile. “No risk to the rest of you. I’ll do this part by myself. I’m pretty good at killing by now.”

Deacon squinted. Nate wasn’t making much sense any more--he’d have to be actually insane to think he could single-handedly take on the Institute--but Deacon still had answers to get. “They offered to fix your head, right?” he asked.

Nate nodded. There was something almost placid about his expression now. Smooth and glassy. Like a river running deep. “Yes. The surgery is scheduled for a week from today. Was, I should say.”

“Conditional on killing the Railroad,” Deacon checked.

“Conditional on all of the Institute’s enemies being eliminated,” Nate corrected. “The Brotherhood, the Railroad. The Easter Bunny, probably, if he popped up. I managed to convince them the Minutemen are no threat. Armed farmers.”

“So you set this up. Bring the Railroad to the coursers.”

Nate shrugged, smirking at him, and spread his hands out to either side. “I don’t know, Deacon, you tell me. There might be an army of coursers on the other side of that door, or there might be a complex full of defenseless, unsuspecting scientists and enslaved synths waiting to be saved. Either way, all of this ends today.”

Deacon opened his mouth to respond, but Nate was already on the move. He turned his back with a wave over his shoulder, saying blithely “See you in Hell, Deacon,” as he pressed the button to open the door and unholstered his pistol with the other hand.

The hall on the other side was empty. The dead bodies _were_ starting to smell from the usual after-death functions. Deacon swore and hit his signal.


	13. The Silent Tree

If a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one around to hear, does it make a sound?

Nate used to think that was such a stupid question, but he understood it a little better now. It’s not really about the sound or the fall; it’s about the perception. The only evidence you have that the world exists is what comes filtered in through your eyes and ears and other senses. The only evidence that you have of something, if it isn’t in your immediate perception, is your own memory. 

So if you can’t remember it and you can’t see it, does it even exist? Any face he can’t see isn’t real, and the person behind it is stuck in limbo. Real and not real at the same time.

He’d gone to see Amari one last time before the assault on the Institute. She had no better news for him; still without the tools or the know-how to fix his specific injury. Tools he might be able to get from the Institute, but that wouldn’t be enough unless she suddenly got a lot of practice at brain surgery. She’d had a book for him though, or more specifically a chapter in a broader book that knew about his disorder.

Forgetting people and things was a common issue. The brain used the faces section as a kind of index for its files on people, sticking each ‘folder’ of information on a person with an image of their face. His filing system was just a mess without labels, bits and scraps scattered around with tenuous connections at best. The other day he’d seen a sniper rifle and abruptly remembered MacCready--gone for months to DC, and it had been about as long since Nate thought about him. He hadn’t even remembered to miss his friend.

That, he thought calmly, was probably the last straw. The third or maybe the thirtieth last straw; Nate had lost count.

The hallways of the Institute were narrow and winding. Synths and scientists alike fell before him, each pistol reloaded with mechanical precision when the clip was spent. He dropped the empties behind him, grabbed full ones from the bandolier across his chest. He had enough for two bullets for every soul in the Institute, though most would only need one, and he hoped most would choose to flee. The coursers would be a problem, but that was what the grenades were for.

He came to a door, poked his head in, and ducked back out. Rolled a frag grenade in and kept walking.

They’d be on alert for sure after that explosion, but they were now down two coursers. He didn’t know how many to go. He figured it didn’t matter much.

He was most of the way through the Bioscience division and their stupid gorillas when the loudspeaker system dinged and Tinker Tom directed all available Railroad heavies to the Director’s quarters and terminal. He needed it to unlock the reactor doors.

Nate sighed and reloaded a clip. Apparently Deacon had made his call. Part of Nate had been hoping for a different one.

Nate was the first to make it to the Director’s quarters, since they weren’t exactly labeled. He let himself in through the unlocked door, heading in a straight line for the terminal. He almost didn’t notice the soft hum of the medi-bed.

The old man was almost dead.

“Shaun,” Nate said, stopping beside the bed. The terminal would be locked. This conversation was for the mission.

“Father,” Shaun said, head twitching stiffly to look at him. His pale eyes were the only thing undiminished by his condition, the same subtle depth. The air of quiet reserve always made you believe he was thinking more than he was saying, that his eyes saw hidden things.

It was as much an act as Nate’s friendliness. Some scared science experiment discovered a long time ago that hiding was better and people listened more when you said less. They all had their coping mechanisms.

“I need your terminal password.”

Shaun sighed and looked away, though only his eyes moved. “Why should I give it to you? You’ll only use it to destroy everything I’ve built.”

“Yes. It deserves to be destroyed. I think you know that. That’s why you wanted to put me in charge.”

“You could have saved them,” Shaun whispered.

“I can only save the ones who want it,” Nate murmured. He reached out and touched Shaun’s face, cupped his cheek in one hand. The stiff bristles of the old man’s beard were rough against his palm. “And I can only do that if I have the terminal password. I’ll give the evacuation order. It ends here, one way or another. Let me save some of them first.”

Shaun closed his eyes and told him the password.

“Thank you, Shaun.”

“I really thought you’d choose to side with us.”

“With the people who stole my son, my wife, my--” Nate cut himself off. It was just going to make him angry, and he didn’t have the energy to spare for anger. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter now. Do you want me to kill you?”

“You’re going to anyway,” Shaun said, eyes staring dully at Nate. He repeated Nate’s earlier words: “One way or another.”

“Right. I’ll see you soon, Shaun.”

Nate didn’t have to look away when he pulled the trigger. It wasn’t like the sight was going to haunt him.


	14. The View from Up Top

Deacon finally caught up with Nate outside the door labeled Advanced Systems; the tracking had been as easy as following the trail of dead bodies and open doors. Panicked scientists scuttled past him clutching precious possessions--research materials, experiments, children, holotapes. Nobody had tried to attack Deacon yet. They weren’t accustomed to violence. The evacuation order might really just be a stay of execution until something on the surface got a whiff of these marshmallow people.

“Nate!” Deacon called out as the man in question tapped the door controls into Advanced Systems. Drawing closer he said, “Hey, it’s Deacon.”

Nate turned around, shooting him a withering look. “I know. You’ve haven’t changed in the last half hour.”

Not for lack of wanting to. Deacon always itched to change disguises when he was in a crowd. “Just making sure. Your work in the Director’s quarters?” The unlocked terminal and the dead Director, Deacon meant.

“Who else does all the dirty stuff around here?” Nate asked with a sardonic smile.

“Des is right behind me with the charge. You got a little ahead of us.”

“Yeah. Gee. Wonder how that happened.”

Deacon huffed. It had been a reasonable suspicion. “None of this would have happened like this if you’d just told us about your little--” Deacon twirled a finger next to his temple. “--problem.”

Nate shrugged. “Well, Deacon, it’s not that I don’t trust you but--oh, wait, that’s exactly what it is. You’d never have let me run missions if you thought I was too big a risk. I don’t tell anybody. Don’t take it personal. Except it kind of is personal with you.”

“Now you’re just trying to hurt my feelings,” Deacon mock-pouted. As with most people, Nate was a lot more likeable when Deacon knew his secrets. Shame Nate didn’t seem to feel the same way.

Deacon motioned toward the open door with his rifle. “We going or nah?”

Nate rolled his eyes up for a moment, heaving a sigh. “Stay behind me,” he ordered. “And don’t take off the stupid sunglasses.”

“Never,” Deacon swore, grinning. He followed Nate into Advanced Systems, finger laid alongside the trigger. If this was anything like previous missions, he wouldn’t be doing a lot of shooting. “So, what exactly was your plan if I told the rest of the Railroad to stay away?”

“Evacuate the civilians, get down to the reactor, shoot at it until it blew up.”

“Well, that’s a shit plan. Des has a bomb we can set.”

“Sure. Good.”

Advanced Systems was full of synths, including four coursers, two in each little room on the right. Deacon saw them quite clearly through the windows before Nate yanked him down below the questionable cover of the wall.

“If you want to walk out of here, do it now,” Nate called up to the synths. “There’s a lot of scientists leaving. They’re going to have no protection up on the surface and no idea what to do. You live, you can keep them safe. Or go free. The other option is stay here and die.”

Deacon raised his eyebrows at Nate. The guy actually sounded like he believed all that. It was either a great bluff or a special kind of crazy to think you could take on four coursers.

Silence for a moment, and then Deacon heard muttering voices from the two coursers in the left-hand room, culminating in three gunshots.

“I want to walk out,” someone from that room shouted.

From across the hall, “Y4-20!”

Nate yelled over them both, “Master recall code alpha-zed-orange-coniferous-six-six-two.”

All other voices fell silent.

“Found that on the terminal too,” Nate said.

“Nice,” Deacon commented. He poked his head up, peering through the windows to see the coursers just standing there, ramrod-straight with their heads bent forward. He added, “Super creepy.”

Nate levered himself up off the floor--taking it easy on one leg, Deacon noticed, although he walked on it fine--and went around to the right-hand room. He fired two shots into each courser’s head, dropping them both like puppets.

“Might wanna do the other one,” Deacon watched the last courser standing for signs of movement.

Nate didn’t even glance back, already heading for the long hall at the end of the room. “The recall wears off in twenty-four hours, or when I say so. He isn’t a threat.”

Deacon trotted after him. “Then why’d you shoot those other two?”

“Maybe I just wanted to,” Nate suggested.

Deacon allowed, reluctantly, that this was possible.

Nate checked that the door was open, then returned to the main room to wait for Desdemona. She arrived only a few minutes later, a bulging messenger bag hanging at her side, not a hair out of place and railway rifle in hand. “Got the detonator right here,” she said, patting the bag as she nodded at Nate in greeting. “Glad to see you with us, Charmer.”

“All the way to the end,” Nate said with his namesake charming grin. That shit was half the reason Deacon hadn’t trusted him. Nate had never bothered with the front for Deacon, but he took everyone else to the cleaners.

“Right through here.”

Nate led the way into older tunnels, dusty and cobwebbed, poorly lit. There was no more resistance in the form of coursers or other synths, just quiet halls and echoing footsteps.

“There rads down here?” Desdemona asked, eying the decontam arch as they passed it.

“Negligible. You won’t even need to pop a Radaway up top. The Institute is just very sensitive to radiation.”

“Finally.” Desdemona’s eyes nearly glowed, no radiation needed, when she set sight on the reactor. “We’re finally here.” She took the detonator out of her messenger bag, held it in both hands for a moment, then offered it to Nate. “We wouldn’t be if it weren’t for you. Do you want to do the honors?”

Nate smiled again. “You’re just afraid of the rads,” he accused playfully. “They’re a lot worse in the reactor. Yeah, I got it. I took a Rad-X earlier.”

The bomb was set in less than a minute, Des radioing in to Tinker Tom that they were ready a moment later. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s get clear of the blast before we start celebrating.”

“You guys go on ahead,” Nate suggested. “There’s something I gotta find down here first. Don’t worry, I’ll be clear in time.”

Des hesitated, balancing up on the balls of her feet for a moment. “We can help you look. What is it?”

“A blueprint the Director mentioned. A discarded idea for energy production. They couldn’t use it down here, but we might be able to up top.”

“Is it on a holotape?” Des was already casting around.

Deacon was watching Nate.

“Probably,” Nate said. “Look, it’s a long shot. That’s why you two shouldn’t risk it--just get out of here. I’ll do a quick scan, be right behind you.”

“Three eyes are better--”

Deacon cut in. “Des, you should leave. Me’n Charmer will look together. We need you upstairs making sure Tom’s finger doesn’t get twitchy on the button, yeah?”

Desdemona glanced between Deacon and Nate, eyes narrowing. “Alright.” She knew something was up. She was going to trust Deacon, like she always did. “Don’t take too long.”

“Don’t blow me up,” Deacon called after her as she left. He turned back to Nate, who hadn’t moved a step. So much for searching. “So. Where do you want to start?”

Nate gave him a baleful look. “I know you’re not that stupid, Deacon.”

“Yeah, obviously. I meant, where do you want to start explaining the stupid shit you’re thinking?”

Nate unholstered his pistol, but he didn’t point it at Deacon. The sights lined up with the detonator.

Quietly he said, “I don’t care if I take you with me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is tagged with "Angst with a happy ending" and not a "Major character death" tag for a reason. It won't stay this dark. We're in the home stretch with probably 3 chapters to go.
> 
> EDIT: lmao was I wrong about the chapter count.


	15. The End of the World (remix)

“I think you do care,” Deacon said, taking a step forward like a moron. “Or else you’d have done it already. You’d have done it when Des was still in the room. Before giving the evacuation order, even.”

“I don’t hate Desdemona,” Nate pointed out. “And I’ve got nothing against--well, actually, I have a lot I could hold against the scientists here. I just decided not to. You, on the other hand….” he trailed off meaningfully.

“Come on, we had some good times! Remember Hangman’s Alley? Tons of fun!”

Nate’s grip tightened convulsively on his pistol. Deacon took a moment to be glad the safety was still on. “Leave, Deacon.”

The masking grin fell off Deacon’s face. “Not unless you’re leaving with me.”

Hot red fury bloomed behind Nate’s eyes. His heart was going a mile a minute already, sweat making his grip on his pistol too slick, sticking his undershirt to his back. And Deacon was here in front of him acting like he hadn’t wanted to put Nate down himself just a couple hours ago.

“What do you think is going to happen here?!” Nate shouted at him. “Get! Out! I swear to God, Deacon, you don’t even fucking like me! Just walk away. You’ve got ten seconds. Ten.”

Deacon raised his voice. “You’re not--”

Nate kept counting. “Nine.”

“--going to shoot--”

“Eight.”

“--because if you--”

“Seven.”

“--were, you--”

“Six.”

“--would’ve done it--”

“Five.”

“--already. You--”

“Four.”

“--could eat a--”

“Three.”

“--bullet right here--”

“Two.”

“--and I’d just have to leave your pretty pretty corpse. But you’re counting down, and you’re waiting, because you won’t do it _yourself_ ,” Deacon spat. “You can only let it happen. Trust me, dude, been there. Got the tee shirt. You’re not the only one who’s lost people, jackass.”

Nate’s eyes were wide, wild. He was vaguely aware that he was on the edge of hyperventilating, his grip white-knuckled. “Of course not. But I’m the only one I know who can’t find new ones.”

“You’re--you can--”

“I tried,” Nate’s voice cracked. “Again and again. It’s not worth it. A shadow of what I used to have. If you knew, Deacon, one-hundred percent for sure that you’d already had the best day of your life, and every day after that was just going to be worse and worse… what would _you_ do?”

“Already living it,” Deacon said, choking down a lump in his throat. Not the time for a sympathetic cry. “Nobody comes to the Railroad with a happy story.”

Nate smiled nothing like the ones he’d given Desdemona. Sad, a little condescending. “Yeah, but you’re not _sure_ , are you? There might be something good ahead for you. Some good you could do, maybe.” He took in a deep breath, let it out slow and shuddering. 

Deacon took the pause as an opportunity. “There’s still things you can do, too. Some good days. Half as good as your best day is still pretty great.”

“I know. Thought about it for a while, but. I’m done. Sure, there’s more I could do. Preston doesn’t want to lead the Minutemen. The scientists need help adjusting up top. The synths need help. I don’t care. I’m not a good enough person to keep going for them. I’ve earned my rest.”

“You’ve earned more than a grave.”

“I don’t _want_ anything more than that.”

“That’s not what I’ve been hearing,” Deacon took another step closer. Nate didn’t appear to notice. “What I’ve been hearing is that you looked for reasons to stick around and didn’t find any good ones. Did you think about your friends?”

Nate shrugged, casting his gaze down and to the side, distant. “They’ve known me less than a year. They’ll get over it.”

“Who’s got your dog?” Deacon asked. Another half a step.

“I left him with Nick. They’re good together.”

“And MacCready? You leave your note with Daisy to send to him? Because otherwise, he’s gonna bring Duncan up here looking for you.”

“He’ll go to Nick too when he can’t find me. Nick’ll have caught on by then.”

Striking distance now. “You really thought this out, huh,” Deacon said, sliding one foot back and balancing his weight. “Which makes it pretty incredible that you’re still this damn stupid about it.”

Nate opened his mouth to respond, which was when Deacon jumped him. Swatting the pistol away from the detonator, he tackled Nate down to the grating.

It wasn’t a long fight. Nate had weight, height, and reach on Deacon, and it wasn’t a terribly surprising attack. He had Deacon flipped and pinned in a matter of seconds, face down with one arm bent behind his back. The grating was really uncomfortable against Deacon’s face.

“ _Speaking_ of incredibly stupid,” Nate said.

“Hey, buddy, that’s not a stimpack in my pocket,” Deacon croaked.

Nate glanced down at the syringe now sticking out of his thigh. “Oh,” he said, wavering from side to side. “--fuck,” he dove off of Deacon for his pistol. “Fuck you, fuck you.”

Deacon grabbed his ankle, yanked him away from the gun. “Sorry. Not really.”

“Fuck you,” Nate slurred again, staring down the length of his body at Deacon hatefully. If he’d had the mutant power to shoot lasers out of his eyes, Deacon would be cooked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Deacon muttered, heaving him up in a fireman’s carry. Nate passed out sometime between the ground and his shoulder. “I wasn’t kidding about Tom’s twitchy finger, you know. You could still get your wish today.”


	16. Spring Cleaning

“Carrington says if you don’t start eating, he’s going to put tubes in you.”

Deacon watched for a response from the doorway, but there wasn’t one. Nate’s eyes were open and staring at the ceiling; the small rise and fall of his chest the only indication of life. Sometimes even that stopped for a minute at a time, as if it was too much effort.

Deacon uncrossed his arms and came into the room fully. He pulled out the chair next to the bed, turned it around and sat on it backwards. “So. This is plan B? Lay in a bed and waste away until we finally let you die?”

No response. Not even a flicker of an eyelid.

“Got a present for you,” Deacon said. He reached behind himself and pulled the pistol out of his waistband, setting it on the bed near Nate’s hand. He’d had to hide it just to get it in here. “Y’know. Just in case you finally get the guts to do it yourself.”

Nate was as fast as a snake when he wanted to be. He snatched up the gun before Deacon could even think of taking it back. Deacon found himself staring down a dark barrel.

“This isn’t loaded,” Nate said.

Life had surged back into him, color to his face and light in his eyes. A furious light, sure, but it was better than the comatose lump he’d been impersonating.

“Not even you can tell that just from the weight,” Deacon said, absolutely still. His eyes crossed a bit to focus on the muzzle. It was less than a foot from his face. “Tell you what. Try it on yourself first, then you can beat me with it if you live.”

Nate thumbed the safety off.

“Hey, I’m not the one with a death wish here,” Deacon snapped.

“I hate you more than I’ve hated anyone else in my whole fucking life,” Nate growled. “Is this some kind of bullshit test? I pull the trigger, you know you can’t let me go?”

“Course it’s a test.” Deacon confirmed. “Thing is… I’m exactly the kind of asshole who’d hand you a loaded gun as a test, don’t you think?”

Nate turned his eyes away from Deacon to the gun, turning it over in his heads. Deacon was right, though. Not even he could tell just from the weight.

He flipped it around, stared down the black barrel.

“Fuck you, Deacon,” Nate whispered. He could feel his eyes burning, but he was too dried out for real tears. It had been over a day since he drank anything, although Carrington was definitely doing something to get water into him while he was asleep. 

“I should’ve shot you when I had the chance.”

“Still have it,” Deacon’s gaze flicking pointedly to the gun.

“Too late now. You win. I’ll live. For whatever that’s worth.”

Deacon stood slowly. Then he took his sunglasses off and looked Nate in the eye for the first time. “It’s worth a hell of a lot more than you think it is, Nate. Hope you see that someday.”


	17. Prodigal Sons and Fathers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Thanksgiving to my US-based readers. Happy Thursday to everyone else.

“MacCready! Heard you were back in the ‘wealth. And this must be little Duncan.” Deacon crouched down and grinned at the little boy hiding behind MacCready’s legs shyly.

“Stop being a creep, Deacon,” MacCready replied, lip curling in distaste. He had a face made for that expression, very pointy. “I’m here for one reason and one reason only. Leave my kid alone.”

Deacon stuck out his tongue at Duncan, who went wide-eyed, then stood up to address MacCready. “You want to know where Nate is, I bet.”

“I’m definitely not here for your company.”

“You’re gonna teach the tyke bad manners like that,” Deacon complained, gesturing at Duncan. The kid was probably around five years old, possibly a small six. “Thinking it’s okay to talk to people like that.”

MacCready’s face twisted up with internal conflict for a moment. Then it cleared and he put one hand on the kid’s head and said, “Deacon’s a special exception. You don’t have to be polite to Deacon, since he doesn’t know the meaning of the word.”

Deacon slapped a hand over his heart as if he’d just been shot, gasping. He let it fall with a huff. “Whatever. Nate’s not actually in the Commonwealth any more.”

“What?” MacCready demanded. “Where’d he go? He woulda sent word if he was going somewhere…”

_You’re lucky you didn’t get word by way of his suicide note_ , Deacon almost said, but changed his mind at the last minute. He might like to see the expression on MacCready’s face, but it wasn’t worth doing it to the kid too. “Relax, he’s not far, and he didn’t send word because I assume he forgot. Had a lot of stuff going on at the time.”

Fleeing immediately being the big one. Nate had stopped in Sanctuary for less than an hour to clear out his supplies before answering some sort of radio beacon about Nuka-World.

“What the hell’s a Nuka-World?” MacCready demanded. “Ugh--I mean heck. Don’t repeat that, Cans.”

Duncan nodded solemnly.

“Old World theme park made by the people who made Nuka-Cola,” Deacon said. “The entrance is over here,” he pulled out his map, pointing out the road. MacCready had his out a moment later, marking the spot. “Takes a lifted shuttle over a part of the Glowing Sea, inaccessible by land. I don’t actually have a lot of information from inside the park.”

“Da-ng, that’s half the ‘wealth away from here,” MacCready muttered. He glanced down at Duncan worriedly.

“Could leave the kid here with the Railroad. Or up with Garvey and the Minutemen at Sanctuary. Things are a lot quieter around here since Nate took care of the Brotherhood and the Institute.”

“I told him not to worry about solving all the world’s problems,” MacCready muttered, rolling his eyes. “Cans, you feel up to some more traveling? It’s okay if you’re not--we’ll take a break, I wouldn’t leave you behind.” He shot Deacon a look that said, _especially not with you_.

“Mhm,” Duncan made a small noise of agreement, barely audible. He ducked further behind MacCready’s legs when he saw Deacon looking at him again.

“We’ve actually got a scout heading out there in a couple days if you’re not in a rush,” Deacon said. “Safety in numbers ‘n all that.”

MacCready squinted at him suspiciously. “Who’s the scout?”


	18. Two Brass Halos

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is, as has become my usual, part two of a double update. Make sure you've read the chapter before this!

“I’m just saying, you’re like one of his least favorite people on earth,” MacCready said. His voice was low because Duncan was napping stretched across a pair of the shuttle’s seats.

“He tell you that?” Deacon asked mildly. He was pretty sure his relationship with Nate hadn’t devolved until well _after_ MacCready left. Before that, they’d been on working terms.

“Nate doesn’t have a bad word about anyone,” MacCready snorted. “But you’re the only one he didn’t have any good words for. Gotta read between the lines.”

“MacCready,” Deacon made his tone mockingly impressed. “I didn’t know you knew how to read.”

MacCready’s nose wrinkled. “Get fucked.”

“Careful, kid’s right there.”

“Oh thank god,” MacCready said, looking out the window. “I think we’re almost there. Really, why the he-ck did the Railroad send you instead of literally anyone else?”

Deacon looked as well, saw the Nuka-World parks jutting out of the barren landscape like blisters. “I don’t know if he’ll believe it from anyone else.”

“So they sent a _known liar_?”

“Nate knows I wouldn’t show my face again without a _really_ good reason.” Not that this was the same face he’d had the last time Nate saw him; and not like that would even matter.

“Whatever. Hey, does this place look kind of… raider-y to you?”

“You know, it kind of does,” Deacon replied, staring at the spiky statuary. No heads or body parts at least. “Oh, Nathan, what have you gotten yourself into?”

MacCready fixed his hat and went to gently shake his son awake.

There were two very raider-looking people sitting at the welcome desk, both hunched over an old radio.

“Shiv’s ducked the mute and stabbed him in the--do super mutes have kidneys?--anyway, it’s screaming, listen to that!” A super mutant’s pained roar could be heard faintly in the background. “Stupid fucker’s already dead--” MacCready clapped his hands over Duncan’s ears “--not that it knows that. Shiv’s going in for the hamstring, oooooh, bad idea, he gets kicked in the shoulder and, yes, that’s the arm broken and he’s already used up his stimpack. Shiv will have to finish this one fast--”

“Excuse us,” Deacon interrupted, leaning over the desk. “You folks give directions to weary travelers?”

One of the maybe-raiders glanced up with a pissy expression. “Yeah, where you wanna go? All the parks are open.”

“We’re actually looking for someone,” MacCready said, stepping forward. Duncan came with him, mostly because MacCready was still covering the kid’s ears. The radio was still giving a play-by-play of what sounded like a deathmatch between a man named Shiv and a super mutant. “His name is Nate Spencer.”

The other maybe-raider’s head jerked up, matching the surprise of his partner. “You’re lookin’ for the boss? He don’t see just anyone.”

“We’re old friends,” Deacon lied. “Bet most people don’t come through asking for your boss by his name.”

“He’s got a point,” one muttered to the other.

“Not our problem,” he replied, then raised his voice and said to Deacon and MacCready, “Boss is at the Arena right now. If you hurry you might catch him before the next match.” He pointed to a door. “Through there, follow the signs, don’t make any turns between them. Takes you right to it.”

“Great. Thanks,” Deacon said, waving as he walked away.

“What the f-rick has Nate gotten himself into now,” MacCready muttered, following closely behind. He held Duncan’s hand in a firm, tethering grip.

“We just talked to the same people and you heard the whole conversation, so you know about as much as I do.” Deacon paused thoughtfully, then added, “Except that there used to be a lot of raider activity on the other side of Nuka-World--opposite the Commonwealth--and there’s a lot less now. Take from that what you will.”

“I’m takin’ that Nate musta killed a lot of raiders.”

“Yeah, something like that.”

A little way down the hall that had been pointed out, they started to hear the radio announcer’s voice again. This time it was piped in over some sort of PA system, distant and tinny but growing louder as they approached the arena. It sounded like they weren’t going to get to the arena before the next match; the announcer was gleefully crowing about the physical characteristics of the deathclaw in the next match.

“They’re going to pit some people against a deathclaw? In an _arena_?” Where you can’t run away and get the range advantage, MacCready meant.

“Sounds like fun. Maybe it’s a nice deathclaw, they can sit down and have a tea party.”

“I think one of those synths scrambled your brains.”

The path let out onto the top floor of a three-tiered arena, set up and farthest back from the bloodbath in the center. It was built around an old-world bumper cart arena, the empty and shredded chassis of old carts piled up in drifts here and there around the floor. Most of the people were clustered on the lower two levels closer to the action.

“And who, _who_ ,” the announcer repeated with howling emphasis, “Will be facing certain death against this rad-soaked demon from the depths of the Glowing Ocean?”

The crowd roared, a wall of noise Deacon half-expected to blow his hair straight off. MacCready reached down and covered Duncan’s ears. The kid was staring around at a whole new world.

“That’s right, you motherless slags! Our very own… OVERBOSS!”

The crowd roared again, _louder_ somehow. It was answered by the bellow of the deathclaw, imprisoned out of sight for the moment, but a tiny and pale noise in comparison.

“Did that guy just say that some idiot is going one-on-one with a deathclaw?” MacCready asked.

“Yeah. And who do we know who does shit like that _way_ too often?” Deacon growled. He shrugged out of his rifle strap, bringing the gun around to the front. He hadn’t traveled all this way with MacCready of all people just to watch Nate get his foolish, suicidal head bit off.

“Duncan, ears. And cover your eyes,” MacCready ordered, readying his own rifle.

“But Dad!”

“ _Now_ , Cans. And no peeking.”

Duncan picked up the child-sized ear covers from around his neck and fixed them over his ears. He covered his eyes with his hands, but he was definitely peeking.

“Are you aiming at the deathclaw?” MacCready asked as he checked his scope’s alignment.

“One-hundred percent honesty, I’m seriously considering shooting Nate in like… the leg somewhere. Be fine probably. I’ve seen him walk that off before.”

MacCready fully understood the impulse, but, “I’ve seen you shoot, your aim’s not that good. Your long shots drift too low. You'll wind up kneecapping him I bet.”

“Jackass,” Deacon muttered under his breath.

The gate came up, the deathclaw was released into the arena, and both Deacon and MacCready took aim.


	19. It's Definitely Psycho

Cool metal touched against the back of MacCready’s neck accompanied by the distinctive click of a hammer being cocked back.

“I’m gonna advise you to put the safety on. Quick-like.”

“You first,” Deacon quipped. MacCready could see out of the corner of his eye that Deacon was in a similar position, gun to the back of his head, although he couldn’t see who was holding it without turning more.

“Deacon,” MacCready hissed. His guts felt like water. Duncan was right there by his knees, watching. He flicked the safety back on his rifle and reached over and did the same to Deacon’s. “This is not the fucking time.”

“Good,” said the voice behind MacCready. “Now turn around. Slow. Keep that muzzle pointed up.”

MacCready turned around as instructed. 

If the two people they’d seen behind the welcome desk were raider-esque, this guy was full-on raider. Sinister metal eyepatch, rusty slapped-together armor and far too much leather to be comfortable in a Commonwealth summer. His mouth was set in a perpetual frown. The guy next to him was just as bad albeit in a different way with the face painted in garish colors.

“Now, you wanna tell me what two snipers are doin’ takin’ aim at the Overboss?”

“Aiming at the deathclaw,” MacCready corrected. He heard the fight engaging behind him as a roar in the crowd’s ambient noise level. The announcer was giving a play-by-play again but MacCready couldn’t focus enough to listen to it.

“Uh-huh,” the raider drawled doubtfully.

“Really, we came here looking for him,” Deacon said. He’d shouldered his rifle casually. He could afford to be casual. He didn’t have a kid here in the line of fire.

MacCready should have left Duncan with someone.

“We’re friends of Nate’s. He hasn’t been home in a while so we figured we’d check up on him,” Deacon continued. “See how he’s been doing since he left home.”

Eyepatch looked like he might be getting ready to believe them, finger easing off the trigger. “Alright. What’s his gun’s name?”

Deacon grimaced. Nate had a lot of guns and he wasn’t sure which one the man might be using right now.

MacCready’s expression had frozen as he hyper-focused on the noise of the arena behind him. His life and Duncan’s--and Deacon’s, but he didn’t really care about that part--relied on getting this right.

“He’s shooting with Deliverer and Dispenser right now,” MacCready said, refocusing on the two raiders as soon as he’d matched up the gunshots. Nate’s modded weapons were all pretty distinctive, and their names were all either melodramatic or some sort of pun.

“Shit, guess you do know ‘im,” Eyepatch said, finally dropping the sights off of MacCready. His friend did the same while giving Deacon the evil eye. “Trust me, he wouldn’t thank you for ruining his little fight.” The raider had to raise his voice over a sudden scream of noise. “I tried to talk him out of it every fuckin’ day since he got this idea into his thick skull.”

Deacon whirled to watch the arena as soon as he was sure he wouldn’t be shot, although he didn’t raise his rifle again. MacCready kept watching Eyepatch. He was finally able to tune into the broadcast over the PA system though.

“God damn that’s some good shooting! For all ‘a y’all too fucked up to be here an’ watchin’ this, the Overboss just shot out the deathclaw’s other eye. It’s stumbling blind, bitches! Listen to that noise!”

The announcer fell quiet for a moment, allowing his mic to pick up the pained, infuriated roar from the deathclaw.

“Relax, man, I’m not gonna shoot ya,” Eyepatch said to MacCready. He moved up to the railing to get a visual on the fight. “I’ll let the boss deal with you.”

MacCready still didn’t look away until the other raider, the one with the painted face, had wandered off back to his box seats. “How’d that happen, anyway? Nate being your Overboss?”

Eyepatch shrugged. “He killed the last Overboss, Coulter. Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving guy. Right here in this arena actually.”

“Oh, good, so he makes a habit of this,” Deacon muttered.

“Nah. Things were different then. The arena fights like this are new. Used to be we just stuck a bunch of prisoners or whatever in here and set them against whatever. Each other, Mason’s dogs, some Disciples. Can’t do that anymore since boss killed ‘em all.”

Nate was moving around the arena floor not stopping for a second as he unloaded one gun and then another into the deathclaw’s head. Its armored skull was cracking and bleeding, each bullet striking within the same two-inch circle like a drill. It was doing its best to chase him, but with no sight, no wind for scent, and the screaming of the crowd to confuse its hearing, it wasn’t having an easy time.

Deacon unclipped the scope from his rifle and used as a telescope, getting a closer look at something in the arena. He sighed.

“What is it?” MacCready demanded.

Deacon held the scope out. “Look at Nate.”

MacCready took it and trained his best eye through the magnification, finding Nate after a moment’s scanning. “What am I--ah, fuck.”

Nate had changed up his look since the last time MacCready saw him months ago. His combat armor was newer, painted matte black with two crossed pistols stenciled on the chestpiece. A bandolier belt went over one shoulder and around his waist. 

He’d never worn a helmet or any kind of hat, which meant MacCready had a clear shot of his face. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, cheeks hollow gaunt and eyes sunken. He’d acquired a fresh scar since MacCready had last seen him, a long slice from one prominent cheekbone to the corner of his mouth. Worst and most recognizable, the whites of his eyes were bloodshot red, with pupils the size of caps.

“That’s Psycho.”


	20. Where Wild Things Go To Die

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a bit late. My excuse is that Cyberpunk 2077 dropped, I spent the last several days doing nothing but playing it. My final verdict is that it's fun enough but not worth $60 unless CDPR drops a bunch of free DLC and updates.
> 
> You may notice that there is now an end counter for chapters. That's because the end is finally in sight. This... was not meant to be this long.

The two raiders - Gage and Mason, they eventually introduced themselves - led Deacon, MacCready, and Duncan down to the ground floor when the match’s outcome became a foregone conclusion. Nate emerged only a few seconds after they reached the old ride operator’s office, the deathclaw’s bloody blown-off horn slung over his shoulder as a trophy.

“Gage!” Nate shouted, grinning savagely, more a show of teeth than happiness. “I told you I’d be fine. Piece of fucking cake.” Then he looked a little closer at the other people who were with Gage.

MacCready crossed his arms and leaned back, unimpressed. The thick end of the deathclaw horn was dripping gore down the front of Nate’s armor. Deacon frowned behind his sunglasses.

Nate squinted at them but said nothing. After a long moment of contemplation, he one-hand racked the shotgun he’d used to blow off the horn.

“Jesus, Nate, put that away,” MacCready said quickly, hands falling to shove Duncan fully behind him.

Nate paused, some small amount of awareness filtering through the shrewd predatory gaze. “MacCready?” His eyes flicked down, following movement. “...Duncan?”

“Can someone get this idiot some Addictol?” MacCready groused.

Deacon reached into a pocket and passed an inhaler over to MacCready. Nate’s eyes darted to him as soon as he started moving, the movement unnervingly fast and then completely still. Deacon shifted slower getting back to where he’d been.

“Guess you know ‘em then, boss?” Gage asked sarcastically.

Nate was still staring at Deacon like a cat sizing up a mouse. Like the proverbial mouse, Deacon was frozen.

Gage moved between them so casually that it could have been an accident, breaking Nate’s line of sight. Nate fixated on MacCready again.

“Here,” MacCready said, holding out the inhaler of Addictol. “Nate. Come on.”

Nate blinked hard and shook his head. “Don’t need it. I’m good.”

“Nathan. You’re not taking one single god damn step closer to my kid until you _take this_.”

Nate rolled his eyes but took the inhaler. He hit it like a professional Jetsurfer, held it for a long moment and then breathed out. He said forcefully, “There.”

The results weren’t instant; MacCready waited with one foot bouncing nervously.

“Never known the boss to come down early,” Mason muttered to Gage. “That’s some primo shit he was on, too. Shame to waste it.”

“Don’t you have some dogs to be fucking?” Gage asked him.

“Hey!” MacCready glared, pointing down at Duncan. “Watch your language, a-sshhhh holes.”

Nate meanwhile was meandering down from the lofty heights of his Psycho high - or more accurately, wandering out of the jungle that Psycho put you in. MacCready knew he was more or less back when Nate groaned and covered his face with one hand. “Fu-rick, sorry MacCready. I wasn’t expecting to see you here. And with Duncan? And _Deacon_?”

“Sup,” Deacon waved.  
“I’ll deal with you in a second,” Nate promised dangerously. Deacon shrugged. “C’mon, let’s go to the Fizztop.”

Nate started leading them out of the arena toward ‘the Fizztop,’ whatever that was. MacCready couldn’t hold it in anymore, so he asked, “You’re shooting Psycho again?”

Instead of answering MacCready, Nate looked back at Deacon. “You didn’t tell him?”

“Not my job. Me, Carrington, Des. Far as I’m concerned, nobody else had to know.”

“Excuse me,” MacCready said loudly.

“Sorry,” Nate nodded, biting his lip. “Just--I’ll explain when we get up to the patio.”

And weren’t pushing through a market more crowded than MacCready had seen even in Diamond City, he meant. There were parts of the DC Wasteland that were this populated, but he hadn’t thought the Commonwealth could field the same number of people.

“Busy place,” Deacon commented. MacCready stopped trying to keep hold of Duncan’s hand, picked him up and started carrying him despite the boy’s protests.

“Didn’t used to be. I changed some stuff when I took over. What are you doing here, Deacon?  
You and MacCready don’t even like each other.”

“You people have a lot of ideas about my opinions,” Deacon complained. “I don’t remember pouring my heart out to you about my feelings for Mack.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“You actually did tell me once that you didn’t like MacCready cuz of how he talks about synths,” Nate pointed out.

“Well.” Deacon paused. “I said I don’t _remember_ it.”

He sounded distracted, attention drawn to an altercation going down near the gate to another section of the main park. One of the raider-like people was harrasing a man with a small cart drawn by a thin, worn-looking brahmin.

Nate had seen it too. His eyes narrowed and he said, “Gage?”

“Skinny Shin,” Gage replied easily, “Two strikes.”

“Right. MacCready, you might want to cover Duncan’s eyes.” Nate said this in the same tone he used to use when saying things like, If we just drop these electrified wires in the pond, the behemoth will be dead before you know it.

MacCready jammed Duncan’s head against his shoulder. The boy protested loudly, “Dad!” 

His dad was watching Nate stride over to the one-sided argument, stone-faced and absolutely cold. Pretty much the opposite of Psycho. “Sorry kid. Maybe when you’re older.”

“Skinny Shin!” Nate called out when he was about ten feet away. Other eyes, ones that had been carefully avoiding looking at the raider shaking the man down, suddenly looked over. “That’s three strikes.”

Skinny Shin’s eyes went wide, panicked. He got as far as a pleading, “Boss!” before Deliverer delivered him unto his maker.

“Sorry about that,” Nate told the cringing trader. “Reformation is a process. You can take anything you want off his corpse.”

“Th-th-thanks,” the guy stuttered.

Nate rejoined them, motioning for everyone to get walking again. “Gage, that’s how many?”

“First this week. Three last.”

“Huh. Well, they’re getting better.”

“Not like they’ve got much choice,” Gage muttered under his breath.

Behind the two of them, Deacon shot MacCready a wide-eyed, questioning look. MacCready grimaced and shrugged expressively, trying to convey that he’d _never_ been able to tell what Nate was going to do next.

“Oh, tell me we’re not using that death trap.” MacCready’s sharp eyes had spotted the outdoor elevator Nate was heading towards. Deacon stopped dead in his tracks.

Nate turned, looked at Deacon, and smiled nastily. “Sorry,” he said not sounding sorry at all, “It’s the only way up to the patio. Security reasons.” 

Gage snorted and left without a word of goodbye, pushing through the nearby doors into the mountain itself.

“I’m good down here actually,” Deacon said. “I saw a bar back there, you can come pick me up when you’re done.”

“You said you had something to tell him,” MacCready accused.

“It can wait.”

“Stop being a little bitch, Deacon. Get in the bucket. I use this thing daily, it’s only broken like… twice.”

“Okay, now _I’m_ not coming,” MacCready announced. He gripped Duncan’s shirt with white knuckles. 

“Oh my god, it was a joke. It’s never broken down. Will you both please just get in the bucket.”

“You’re a cruel man,” Deacon muttered as he passed Nate and went to stand in the corner right under the attachment rope. “If I die I’m gonna haunt your ass so bad.”

“Language!” MacCready snapped. He let Duncan down--to the kid’s delight--and they got into the elevator.

Nate fiddled with the controls, plugging in the pipboy on his wrist before he punched a button and the motor revved and started reeling them up.

“Security, huh?” MacCready asked.

“I set something of a precedent by ascending over the corpse of my predecessor,” Nate replied. “I try to discourage repeats.”

“Smaller words, Natey, Mack’s not that smart.”

“I will _push you off_ of this deathtrap,” MacCready snarled.

“And I’ll let him,” Nate warned.

Deacon raised his hands in surrender, but he was still shifting agitatedly from one foot to the other.

“Deacon gets snippy when he’s afraid, and he’s terrified of heights,” Nate confided in MacCready.

“I have a _reasonable caution_ of high places!” Deacon snarled. “And fuck you too, by the way.”

“Watch your freaking mouth, geez!” MacCready said again. “And what kinda sniper is afraid of heights?”

“The kind who doesn’t base their entire personality around shooting stuff from a distance?”

“You don’t even _have_ a real personality.”

Nate wondered aloud, “How did you two not kill each other on the way here?”

Both the other men fell silent, standing on opposite ends of the elevator as it rumbled to a stop. Truthfully, they hadn’t spoken or fought much on the way to Nuka-World--it was as if having Nate around as a buffer gave them the opportunity to rip into without the underlying concern that it would escalate to actual murder.

Deacon very nearly dove out of the elevator bucket as soon as the ramp extended, lunging for the far railing and dragging himself onto the Fizztop Patio like he’d scaled the outside of the mountain rather than had a sedate, somewhat jerky ride. MacCready pointedly let Duncan walk himself off, giving Deacon a look like, _see, even the kid can do it_.

Deacon didn’t appear to notice or care.

“Okay, we’re here,” MacCready said, waving around the patio. Like most of Nate’s bases, it was covered in weaponry in various stages of assembly or disassembly, workbenches, tools, and scavenged old-world relics. Unusually, there was an entire rack of syringes on one wall, and they weren’t loaded with stimpacks. MacCready chose to ignore the rack and all it implied for the moment. “Now how about you explain what the _hell_ is going on?”


	21. The Light at the End

The three of them wound up on a circle of couches, clearing away empty Nuka Cola bottles and bits of Nate’s projects so they could sit down and listen to Nate tell his story.

“...so they decided it would be more trouble than it was worth to fight me on it. And once the caps and the traders started rolling in, the other leaders got on side.”

MacCready drummed his fingers impatiently against his rifle, eyes locked on Duncan exploring the Fizztop Patio. He asked Nate, “And the Psycho? You told me you kicked that habit years ago. Just figured you’d give that up so you could get high with your new raider buddies?”

On the couch across from him, Nate leaned back and crossed his arms. He rubbed his eyes with one hand. “No. Yeah, I guess. I stopped caring about all the reasons not to.”

“What about, oh, I don’t know, saving what few undamaged brain cells you have left?” MacCready asked.

Nate flinched.

“Shit. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean that, Nate.”

“You’re probably right though.”

“Well, I for one have to congratulate you. Who’d’a thunk you could rehabilitate raiders? And all you gotta do is scare the shit outta them first and shoot anyone who disagrees.” Deacon chuckled, although it sounded forced and angry. “So you gonna tell him why you came all the way out here?”

A muscle in the corner of Nate’s jaw surged with tension. “You gonna tell me why you _followed_?”

“Sure. You first.” Deacon’s voice dropped, losing its usual airy, careless tone. “He deserves to know, and should be from you.”

Nate grimaced. “I was lookin’ for a--for something to kill me,” he said, staring down at the bottle of Nuka Dark in his hands. “Since Deacon stopped me the last time I tried.”

“Tried what?” MacCready said blankly before he got it. Then, “Oh. _Nate_.”

“Don’t. Whatever you’re thinking right now, just stop. It’s not--I’m fine. You don’t have to worry about me.” Nate gave a scornful huff of laughter. He still hadn’t dared to look at MacCready. “Three dozen raiders couldn’t do it. A deathclaw couldn’t manage. Let’s just face it--dying’s the one thing I _can’t_ do. Bet if I walked naked into the Glowing Ocean we’d find out that I’m a true Child of Atom, too.”

“Well, if it was gonna be anyone…” Deacon joked.

“Shut up, Deacon. Pretty sure I told you I was gonna kill you if I ever saw you again.”

Deacon raised both hands. “But then you wouldn’t get to hear the good news.”

“Is it that you’re gonna go fuck yourself?”

“Nate,” MacCready hissed. “Duncan is right over there.”

Nate made a face. “Sorry.”

“Well, with the Institute and Brotherhood problems handled, Amari and Carrington have had a lot of free time on their hands to work on your little brain damage problem.” Deacon began, and stopped to watch Nate’s expression freeze, savoring a curl of vindication.

Nate’s eyes flicked up to his mirrored lenses. He said, slowly, “Deacon, if you’re playing some kind of sick bait and switch joke, I’m going to rip out your tongue and all your teeth.”

Deacon leaned away from him. “Okay, hanging out with the raiders has not done good things for your temperament, buddy. Amari thinks she can use Kellogg’s old implant to fix your memory issue. Something like external storage, she said. You just have to come back to the Memory Den.”

Nate’s expression froze, except for his eyes widening slightly and the Nuka Dark bottle sliding out of nerveless fingers to the ground. After a few long, silent moments--MacCready glancing from one to the other rapidly--he said, “They what?”

“They think they can fix you.”

Nate reanimated, sitting back and swallowing heavily. “They--she said she couldn’t.”

“She couldn’t, before the Institute fell. Before she could work openly with the Railroad, and some of the scientists who evacuated, Carrington, Tinker Tom… it was a group effort.” Deacon leaned in, something intense and earnest in his expression even behind the sunglasses. “We all owe you, Nate. Did you think we were just gonna let you go?”

“You did,” Nate croaked, hiding his face in both hands. “I’ve been here for _months_.”

“You left pretty damn fast. They weren’t sure it would work at first, didn’t want to give you false hope. It’s ready now though.”

Nate shoved to his feet, pacing the patio agitatedly. Duncan spooked, scrambled over and climbed up on the couch next to MacCready. Nate’s stalking took him over to the rack of chem syringes, where he stopped and stared at them for a long second, his back to Deacon and MacCready.

MacCready mouthed to Deacon, “Do you have another Addictol?”

Deacon shook his head.

“Nate,” MacCready said softly.

Nate grabbed the bar on the edge of the rack, braced his other hand on the wall, and tore the whole side off. It swung out wildly, hanging by the other edge until a second heave separated it completely. Syringes and refill bottles went shattering to the floor.

Nate crunched his way over the broken glass to the double doors leading off the patio to somewhere else. He shoved one open and roared, “Gage!”

Deacon’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, looking between the doors and the patio elevator. He muttered darkly, “Oh, that bastard.”

MacCready looked like he was about to choke on the nervous laughter he was trying to hold down. “Yep.”

The raider Gage appeared beyond the double doors, saying, “Yeah Boss?”

“I’m going back to the Commonwealth. Might be back, might not. If you fuckers start raiding again, I will come back to finish what I started with the Disciples. Got it?”

“Sure.” Gage paused, glancing at the two men and the kid sitting behind Nate. “Uh… how long should we wait?”

Nate moved his head, turning it slightly to one side. Deacon volunteered, “Travel time, op, recovery… three weeks give or take a few days.”

“Three weeks,” Nate repeated for Gage. “Then you can figure it out among yourselves. We’re leaving in the morning.”


	22. An Auspicious Ending

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the second part of a double update. Make sure you read the first part before you start this one.

Nate realized slowly that he had been conscious for some time, aware of but not processing the murmur of voices around him and of a dull throbbing pain through his skull and down the back of his neck. He opened his eyes to a lot of white and colored blurs, blinked a few times to clear the gumminess away.

“Nate? If you can hear and understand me, please say something.”

Nate swallowed thickly, recognizing Amari’s distinctive voice. A person loomed into his field of vision. He was laying flat on a not very comfortable bed. He rasped out, “Was that a big risk? That I might wind up even more brain damaged?”

“Did you not read the consent forms you signed?” She asked, pursing her lips. She looked up and over to someone he couldn’t see. “We’ll have to do a full round of cognitive tests, but so far so good.” She looked back down at him. “How do you feel?”

“Head hurts. Can I sit up?” He was already moving to sit up by himself, shifting his arms up to get an elbow beneath him. Just a little tension on the muscles in his neck sent shooting pain everywhere. “Ugh. No.”

“Let the bed do the lifting,” Amari advised dryly, fiddling with a remote. The bed began to rise slowly. “Your friends are also here in the room,” she said, a bit extraneously since Nate could already see the cluster of people and ghouls against the one wall. “You will not recognize them yet, but don’t panic--that doesn’t mean the implant isn’t working. Your memories will be stored for later recall, but the memory needs to be made first. And, since you didn’t read the forms, I feel it bears repeating--you will have _perfect_ recall. Try not to make too many bad memories.”

Nate recognized MacCready by his hat, Duncan as the only child present, Hancock, Preston, and Piper by their coats. The other ghoul in the room had to be Daisy. Nick and his damaged parts were as distinctive as ever. He studied their faces--anxious, eager, hopeful--and closed his eyes.

 _Preston_ , he thought, and called up a face with warm brown eyes. _Nick, Piper, MacCready, Hancock_. He could picture all of them absolutely perfectly.

“Do you think that means it worked?” Piper asked in a whisper. 

Nate swiped tears away with a breath of laughter. He said, “It worked.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end. Thank you for reading.

**Author's Note:**

> Reviews and comments are as always welcome.


End file.
